


The Hand of Friendship

by Melodious329



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melodious329/pseuds/Melodious329
Summary: When Aramis suffers a grave injury, it forces Porthos to examine his feelings for the sharpshooter.  But while Porthos struggles with what to do with his discovery, Aramis is struggling with some strange effects from his injury.  Can Porthos figure out what is wrong with Aramis in time?  Or has Porthos realized what he wants only to lose it?
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get back into writing with a new fic based on another prompt. You can find the prompt at the end, though the fic does not exactly follow it. It is finished (currently at 36,000 words) but needs to be edited as I post.

Athos leads the other three Musketeers into a rickety building set near the Seine riverbank. The floorboards are water logged and rotten. Suddenly, one collapses under Porthos’s heavier weight and he almost falls through the hole. 

Righting himself carefully, Porthos grumbles to no one in particular, “Are we certain that this is necessary?” 

It’s Aramis, of course, who responds, chuckling and reaching out to hit him in the stomach. The sharpshooter is always there beside him, to appreciate his humor and tease him. “Maybe you should wait outside,” Aramis suggests with a laugh. 

“You two,” Athos whispers sharply. “Check the right side.”

Porthos scowls as he follows the light-footed man, floorboards squeaking ominously underneath his own feet. The thief they are seeking should be the problem of the Red Guards, after stealing from a church, but those fools were clearly outsmarted. Porthos huffs to himself, pleased at the thought of the Musketeers succeeding where the Red Guards have failed. He follows Aramis down a narrow hallway until they come to two doors; quietly Aramis nods to the route he will pursue and Porthos approaches the other door. A scant few feet into the room, he stops, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Listening, he doesn’t hear anything, nothing but the gentle lapping of the river. Nonetheless, his instincts are telling him that this is the quiet before the storm. 

A moment later, he hears a shout, a pistol shot and a thump. Taking off running, he bounces off two different door frames as he hurries to his friend. He shifts his weight to charge into that second room with his weapons up. The first thing he sees is Aramis’ curly mop of hair from where the man is lying on the floor. There’s no one else, no sign of their suspect, only an open window where the man must’ve escaped. Seeing no danger, Porthos kneels, his eyes now locked on his friend’s face. Aramis is still conscious, dark eyes wide but determined, breathing fast but deliberate. 

Porthos is the one panicking, unable to do anything useful as he stares down at the injured man. He hasn’t even determined where the injury is when the arrival of his two teammates has him glancing up. D’artagnan looks first out the window, but Athos quickly focuses on a trail of blood on the floor. Aramis must have been dragged. Porthos quickly looks back down, his hands opening up the leather coat to see a bloody mess underneath. 

Frozen, Porthos can’t think, can’t breathe. Because the wound looks enormous, blood and torn cloth covering the entirety of the lanky man’s torso. Something hits his hand and it takes Porthos a moment to realize that it’s Aramis trying to get his attention. Looking down into the injured man’s face, Porthos can see that Aramis is worried, worried for Porthos, for his friend rather than himself. 

Suddenly hands are pulling Aramis to sit up. Porthos startles and looks to see Athos and d’Artagnan have kneeled beside them. Both men are much more focused and efficient in this crisis as they work together to strip off Aramis’ leather coat. Porthos is instead more focused on the sight of blood bubbles that have appeared on Aramis’ lips as the man struggles to breathe. Porthos knows enough to know that that’s a bad sign. Aramis’ eyes are rolling back in his head as the pain overwhelms him, but that is normal. Porthos is grateful for that as d’Artagnan begins wrapping the entirety of the long torso in cloth. 

“Go,” Athos orders the younger man. “Go find a cart outside.”

Porthos is picking up the now unconscious body of his friend even as Athos is struggling to tie the bandage. Aramis’ head drops back against Porthos’ shoulder. There’s blood splattered on Aramis’ throat, on the hands that hang limply. Porthos can feel the warmth of it soaking into his own clothes. When they make it outside, they see that d’Artagnan has drawn a crowd of looky-loos as well as a cart. 

“Run. Go get the doctor,” Athos continues to command as the crowd parts around them. “Meet us back at the Garrison.”

With those words, Athos jumps into the driver’s seat on the cart while Porthos stays with Aramis in the back. But there’s nothing for Porthos to do. He steadies himself with one hand around the cart’s rail and then places one hand on top of Aramis’ wrapped belly, pressing down to slow the bleeding and prevent his friend sliding out. It’s a real concern as the cart bounces over the muddy streets, moving as fast as Athos dares. 

But it’s not fast enough as far as Porthos is concerned. Aramis’ head bobs listlessly in the cart, utterly unaware and, with the motion of the cart, Porthos can’t even see if Aramis is still breathing. Letting go of the cart, Porthos reaches out to wipe the blood from slack lips. He’s so intent on the task that he is startled when the cart suddenly stops, throwing him off balance enough that his weight presses down hard enough on Aramis’ wound to elicit a pained grunt. Assured the man still breathes, Porthos hops out of the cart and scoops up the other man to carry him into the infirmary. He can see the doctor arriving through the gates and shouts at the man to hurry up. 

Porthos bursts through the door of the small infirmary and places his burden in the closest bed. Doctor Lemay is right behind him, already reaching over Porthos to unwind the hasty bandage. 

“D’Artagnan, get the…” the doctor’s voice suddenly trails off as the wound is unveiled. 

Porthos leans over to try to see, but he still can’t tell what he’s seeing. It’s only blood, lots of blood so that he can’t tell the difference between Aramis’ ruined shirt and torn skin. It’s all red. 

“Get the needle,” Lemay finally finishes. “Looks like we don’t need to cauterize.”

The process of stitching the wounds does rouse Aramis a little, his abdominal muscles jumping as the doctor digs into the wound to remove embedded pieces of linen. Trying to soothe, Porthos holds Aramis’ head still, watching uselessly as Aramis frowns in pain. As the doctor stitches and wipes away blood the size of the bite becomes visible. He can’t imagine how large the animal must have been. The bite extends almost to Aramis’ sternum and from his nipple to his bellybutton. The stitches are jagged from how the skin was torn, but not nearly as bad as it seemed when Porthos first looked. Then it looked like Aramis had been gutted.

Porthos is still holding Aramis’ head still as they roll the injured man onto his side to reach the punctures on his back. The change in position has Aramis finally waking, eyelashes fluttering as he jerks away from the pain in his back with a gasp. 

“Hey,” Porthos tries to get his friend’s attention and stop him moving. “Hey, stop. You’re safe; we’re fixing you up. You’ll be just fine,” he reassures the other man. 

Gently, he taps Aramis’ face, wanting to see recognition in those dark eyes instead of just pain. He’s seen too many soldiers fall unconscious and never wake up. Even if it hurts, he wants to see that Aramis is alive. 

And for a second, he gets his wish. Those dark eyes look at him with recognition and a hand reaches out to grasp at his shirt. But it’s only for a moment as Aramis’s eyes lose their focus and his hand loses its grip. Aramis is unconscious again before the doctor finishes the stitches, his head limp again as they pull him upright enough for the doctor to wrap a clean bandage. 

Porthos stays at the bedside as the doctor rinses and packs up his tools. Anxiously, he tucks the blankets around Aramis’ bare chest, smoothing it down. His eyes trail from the edge of that blanket, up the man’s bare chest and vulnerable throat. Aramis is sweaty, he realizes and looks up finally, thinking to get some water. He is surprised to see Athos and d’Artagnan on the other side of the sickbed. Somehow he forgot about them. 

Athos hands him a wet cloth. “I know,” the man commiserates. “You need something to do.”

Porthos nods, and looks back to the patient, suddenly feeling exposed and wondering if he’s fussing too much. Self-conscious now, he pats the cloth gently over Aramis’ sweaty brow. 

“He’s going to be fine,” d’Artagnan pronounces earnestly, leaning forward in his seat. “You know that. He’s always weaseling out of impossible situations.”

The younger man’s eyes belie his words; they’re pleading for reassurance. But Porthos is too worried himself and Athos is too realistic. Porthos continues his ministrations, using his hand to push back Aramis’ sweaty bangs then dragging the rag down a cheek until it meets a dark beard. He itches to pull back the covers and inspect the wound himself, as if checking it a hundred times would actually help. His friends pat his shoulder, murmuring words of comfort or commiseration. Porthos doesn’t actually listen, all he knows is that they eventually leave. 

Porthos folds the damp rag and lays it on Aramis’ forehead before sitting down. He’s alone now with his unconscious friend, but it would be more accurate to say that he is alone with his rampant thoughts. Aramis is poor company like this. The man is never so still, and rarely quiet. Just yesterday, Aramis had been reading in the indoor common area. The room was shadowed but for a single sunbeam hitting the side of Aramis’ face. It drew Porthos’ eye at the time and he thought that Aramis was as beautiful as one of the marble statues in the king’s garden. He thought that he could stare at Aramis all day. But, instead, Porthos had teased the other man until, laughing, they had gone to the tavern together. 

Collapsing forward, Porthos rests his head in his hands. How can there be a future without Aramis? Just long endless days without friendship, without laughter, without comfort, without...beauty? Porthos is surprised by the direction of his own thoughts. But he knows that he wants more, more days at target practice, more nights at the tavern, more Aramis...he wants more from Aramis. The realization hits Porthos like the retort of his musket. He wants everything with Aramis, to touch Aramis like a lover. It’s not something he’s thought about in years, not since the Court. And maybe a few liaisons in the Army, but nothing serious. Nothing like what he feels for Aramis. 

Aramis has long been the only person that Porthos could trust. After a lifetime of being abandoned, a childhood of scam artists and secrets, his trust in Aramis was never a decision. It just was. Aramis made him feel safe, feel protected. It was an odd feeling when life had taught him that he couldn’t depend on anyone. 

But looking down on his pale and lifeless friend, he wonders if his realization is too late. He leans his elbow on the arm rest and his head in his hand, thinking that he’d give anything just for Aramis to wake up. He doesn’t have the heart to hope for more than that. 

He jerks awake at a sudden commotion, a loud banging sound. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the candle has burned down. Turning back to the bed and his injured friend, he gasps at the sight. Aramis does not look peaceful as he did last night. His face is ruddy instead of pale, his limbs escaping the blankets in all directions. As Porthos watches, Aramis tosses his head to the side and jerks his arm so that it hits the bed with another loud bang. 

A fever isn’t unexpected, Porthos knows, but it feels like another step towards the grave. He doesn’t want to sit here and watch a long torturous decline. Instinctively, he moves to hold the sick man down by the shoulders. Wanting to prevent further injury or tearing of the stitches, he stares down into Aramis’ sweaty face, watching Aramis’ eyes dart under bruised-looking eyelids. The man looks terrible so Porthos shifts to grab the rag again. Shifting his weight off his friend, he finds the damp rag in the rumpled bedclothes. Thinking to cool the man down, he swings his legs to the ground only to be hit in the back, pushing him off the bed. Twisting around on his knees, he manages to block a foot heading for his head. Scrambling to his feet, he catches Aramis from falling off the bed. 

Realizing that he can’t leave his friend, Porthos attempts to straighten the long limbs back on the bed. As soon as he gets Aramis situated though, an arm is flying towards his face again. 

“Dammit, Aramis,” Porthos growls as he dodges that hand. 

Placing one restraining hand on the bony chest, he uses the other to smooth the hair back from a sweaty forehead. It seems the gentle touch calms the fevered ravings so Porthos cautiously sinks down onto the mattress. Lying down on his side, Porthos cautiously places his arm across the other man’s chest, gripping onto the other arm to stop the flailing. For a moment, Aramis struggles, arching up against Porthos’ hold. But a moment later he settles, turning his face towards his companion. Pleased, Porthos also lays a heavy leg over Aramis’ thighs. 

Porthos can’t resist leaning down towards Aramis’ neck as if he might kiss that skin. Holding Aramis, he feels content. They fit in a way that Porthos has never felt, every inch of their skin seemingly pressed together. Aramis knows him in a way that he didn’t believe anyone could. Unfortunately, reality intrudes on his fantasy when Aramis shivers. Porthos can feel the heat coming off the body in his arms. Aramis turns further, trying to burrow into Porthos’ larger bulk. Porthos holds him close, soaking up every moment, trying to block out the thought that this might be his last chance. 

He wants to stay up all night. He wants to watch every breath to be certain that Aramis keeps breathing, wants to memorize every moment of their closeness, but the sound of the door slamming open wakes him to a sunlit room. Athos is there before he can even try stumbling out of the bed where he’s still holding his male comrade. Athos walks right into the room while Porthos simply freezes where he lays on the bed. 

But Athos ignores him and busies himself at the small wash basin. “He’s been delirious?” Athos asks as he pours in fresh water and grabs a rag. 

Porthos barely knows how to reply but he manages a nod as Athos approaches with the full basin. Then Athos hands him a fresh rag without further comment. Porthos returns his attention to the injured man gratefully, maneuvering himself up on his side so that he can wipe Aramis’ face. His friend is still feverish but calm now, back to being utterly still and limp. 

Athos sets the basin down, on the table by the bed and walks away, moving around the room. Porthos hears him and wonders if his friend is simply trying to ignore the awkward scene on the bed. 

Until Athos asks, “Where is his bag? Isn’t there something in there for fevers?”

Looking up, Porthos is filled with hope. He sees that Athos has found the bag and is rooting around, pulling out different potions and powders and weeds. 

“I have no idea what any of this is for,” Athos mutters and Porthos’ heart sinks again. Maybe they can find the doctor…

“What are you looking for?” d’Artagnan asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. Walking over, he reaches over Athos to grab a weed. “For fever,” he explains briefly. “But we need boiling water.” The last sentence is met with silence until the young man huffs and turns to go himself. 

“Thank god someone was paying attention,” Athos says as he moves to take the seat that Porthos vacated last night. “Has he regained his wits at all?”

Porthos shakes his head in the negative before looking back down at his friend again. He folds the rag before placing it on the forehead. The stillness is frankly more worrying than the fevered thrashing. When a hand passes him a steaming cup, Porthos takes it gratefully, eager for the distraction as well as the medicine. He’s too eager to worry about how the other two men are judging him as he cradles Aramis’ upper body. Carefully, he pours the liquid into Aramis’ open lips. It is exquisitely painful to be holding his friend so intimately in this awful situation, he thinks as he uses his fingers to wipe stray liquid from those tempting lips. 

“It’s strange,” Athos’ voice makes Porthos look up again. He sees Athos is holding Aramis’ leather coat. When Athos notices that he has the attention of the other men, he holds up the coat so that they can see the rents torn through the leather. 

“Could a rabid dog simply bite through that?” d’Artagnan speaks up. 

Porthos wonders the same as he watches Athos stick practically his whole hand through one of the tears. And with only one bite, it seems. There’s no answer as he lays the limp body back down on the bed. Aramis doesn’t even twitch as he rewets the rag and bathes his friend’s face again. 

Porthos sighs and finally gets off the bed in order to get a cup of water for himself. As he stands, d’Artagnan offers, “I’ll go get us some food. Maybe he’ll drink a little broth.”

Porthos sighs into his own cup but keeps his own counsel. He’s not sure that anything they do will do any good. Aramis seems as if he is gone already. Taking another gulp, he looks up to see another visitor entering the infirmary’s open door. 

“Dropped by to check the patient,” the doctor gets straight to business. 

d’Artagnan appears behind the doctor in the doorway, balancing several bowls. “Oh,” the younger man stumbles, nearly dropping everything. “We gave him this,” he says as he manages to put his burdens down on the nearby table. He picks up the weed and shows it to the doctor. 

“Feverfew, good,” the doctor approves. “So he has a fever?”

d’Artagnan nods reluctantly as he backs away to give the man room to examine the patient. Porthos rushes over to help. LIfting his friend’s lax body so the bandage can be removed again. 

‘Well, it looks...it looks fine,” the doctor finally says. 

“What do you mean?” Athos asks, looking over the man’s shoulder. 

“Normally, you’d see redness, swelling, infection,” the doctor explains. “There’s no pus, perhaps his body is not expelling the infection.”

“You’re not going to bleed him?” Athos asks, concerned. 

“No, I think he’s bled enough,” the doctor says as he runs a hand over the stitches to check them. 

The touch elicits the first response in Aramis as he shudders, his stomach pulling away from the touch. “Make sure that he doesn’t pull his stitches,” the doctor admonishes. 

Porthos is only too happy for the excuse to hold Aramis again. “Hey, now,” Porthos murmurs, trying to comfort the man, but it is half-hearted at best. He wants Aramis to wake up. 

Together, they rewrap the wound with fresh bandages and Porthos tucks the rough blanket around his friend.

“Go ahead and give him a couple more cups of the herbs and try to get him to drink water and broth, as well.” The doctor looks directly at Porthos before he leaves. “I am sorry, but don’t give up hope.”

The stew is cold when the three musketeers sit down to eat at the room’s long table. Just as they are finishing, the Captain pokes his head in. 

“How’s he doing?” Treville asks, not looking at them as he heads to the one bed occupied. 

Porthos stands and comes closer to stand behind his Captain’s shoulder. Aramis looks asleep, and Treville quickly turns away. 

“I’ll give you as much time as I can, but I need Athos,” the Captain says, not sounding very apologetic, though he never does. 

Porthos doesn’t bother to respond as Athos follows the Captain out. d’Artagnan helpfully brings Porthos more stew, broth and hot water for the herb, but he also has other duties to attend to. Porthos knows that there’s no point to all of them being here. Watching Aramis is pretty thankless at this point, and even Porthos is feeling restless. He hates the waiting, the feeling of uselessness that comes with illness. He barely remembers his mother’s passing but he remembers this feeling. It feels like Aramis is already gone even when he’s right there. 

Cradling that mop of unruly hair in his hand, he drips the tea into Aramis’ mouth and follows it with some broth. The injured man swallows but otherwise doesn’t move and it’s a slow process. Frustrated, Porthos moves on to cleaning the sweat from his friend’s hot skin. The hair that normally defies gravity with its unruly curls is now limp and wet as if the man has been swimming in the river again. He wipes the wet rag over pink cheeks and down the man’s neck where sweat has pooled in the hollow of his throat. 

Cautiously, he drags the rag down to Aramis’ breastbone. That sliver of bared skin has often drawn Porthos’ eye, but now the sight causes a sob to build like a lump in Porthos’ throat. How can he suddenly realize what he wants when any hope is now slipping through his fingers? Moving away, Porthos looks out the open door to the courtyard below. He desperately wishes for a break from this sickroom, but the thought of Aramis slipping away while he’s gone makes him stay. 

Eventually, he sits down in the chair beside the bed again, a cup of wine in his hand, unable to do anything else. It’s quiet and the sun is going down and he doesn’t realize when he begins to fall asleep. 

He wakes to a dark room and the sound of Aramis’ voice. “Porthos!” the man cries out. 

Porthos can barely see in the dark room with only the waning moon offering any light. Still, it’s enough for him to move to the bed and reach out to his injured friend. 

“Aramis, I’m here. You’re safe,” he whispers. “You’re gonna be alright.”

He grasps at Aramis’ bony shoulders, but the man jerks out of his hold. “Porthos. Don’t…” Aramis’s voice is pleading and that’s when Porthos realizes that the man is still unconscious. These are just fevered ravings. 

Porthos holds back a frustrated noise at having his hopes dashed. Readily, he gets on the bed, reaching out to hold his friend again. But Aramis bucks against him, the smaller man as slippery as a fish. Rather than just flailing, it seems like the man is actively fighting Porthos’ attempts to restrain him. For a moment, it is as if they’re wrestling as Aramis tries to weasel out from beneath Porthos’ bulk. 

But it becomes less funny when Aramis cries out again, “Porthos!”

Aramis is calling out to him as if Porthos has abandoned the injured man. He grabs the man from sliding off the bed, dragging the smaller body closer. Back to chest, Porthos wraps his limbs around the still struggling man. He whispers reassurances but he can feel the lean chest gasping for breath. It’s frightening that Aramis can’t even recognize his voice, that Porthos can do nothing to comfort the man. He won’t allow Aramis to die not even realizing that he is among friends, that he’s not alone. 

Eventually, Aramis stops struggling. He’s not sure if the man has simply exhausted himself or has fallen deeper asleep but he doesn’t let go.

“Porthos?” Aramis’s voice is faint. 

Gut clenched, Porthos fears the worst, that this might be the end as he rolls the lean body over so he can look into Aramis’ face. “Porthos?” Aramis asks again and then those dark eyes actually look at him, actually _see_ him. “Porthos, I…”

Aramis trails off and his eyes close. In desperation, Porthos presses his ear to the lean chest, trying to hear the heartbeat inside. To his relief, its thumping sounds like a thunderclap. Desperately, he wants to shake Aramis mightily, needs the reassurance of seeing Aramis awake again, but he knows that it wouldn’t do any good. Injuries need rest. To reassure himself, he simply strokes a finger down the sharp angle of a cheekbone. 

This time, he dares not sleep. Instead, he props himself against the headboard and holds Aramis pressed tight to his side. The room is just beginning to light with the dawn when Aramis begins to stir again, seemingly fighting something in his sleep. 

“Hey, there,” Porthos tries to sound comforting as he strokes his hand through that crazy hair. He doesn’t exactly have a lot of practice at comfort, but Aramis brings it out in him, comfort and protection. 

It takes a long moment for Aramis to wake, like he’s too tired to escape his dream. HIs struggles are weak, the strength of the night before vanished like a wisp of smoke on a breeze. 

“Porthos?” he asks. His voice isn’t weak like before, only tired and hoarse. “Porthos, what? Where am I?”

“You’re back at the Garrison,” Porthos explains. Aramis’ eyes search around the room quickly but return to Porthos as if he doesn’t want to lose the other man. “Do you remember what happened?”

For a moment, Aramis looks terrified, though it’s gone by the time that Aramis speaks. “I don’t know,” he says, looking merely confused again. He blinks slowly, and again, and then he’s asleep. 

Porthos is feeling worn out himself from the emotional turmoil, vacillating between depression and utter relief. He closes his eyes, but keeps his hand wrapped around the back of Aramis’s head to hold him close. But he only rests a moment before Aramis is clawing at his leg, kicking and fighting again. Jolted, Porthos shifts so he can wrap himself around the other man. Above all, he doesn’t want Aramis to hurt himself. 

But Aramis wakes up readily, asking, “Porthos?” 

Freezing, Porthos realizes their position crushed together on this tiny bed. “Aramis?” he answers in a soft voice himself.

Aramis seems to shudder in relief, a breathy sob leaving him. “Porthos...Porthos, you’re here,” he asks, sounding confused but still not delirious. 

“Yes, I’m here,” Porthos answers suddenly awkwardly stiff with Aramis awake and aware. But the other man doesn’t seem to notice as his fingers cling to Porthos’ linen shirt. 

Gently, Porthos rubs Aramis’ back between pointy shoulderblades, careful of the edge of the bandage. Slowly, he relaxes, his touch becoming more soothing. He’s cradling Aramis to his chest, in bed together, in the Garrison. It’s ridiculous and yet, it’s everything that Porthos didn’t know he wanted. Now that Aramis has woken, he can finally breathe again. He feels like he can enjoy this moment, the feel of Aramis’ lean form against him, the soft whuffing sound of Aramis’ sleepy breathing, and the masculine smell of sweat. 

He’s practically trance-like when he hears footsteps stop just inside the room. He knows it’s Athos before the other man enters his line of sight. 

The older Musketeer peers down at them with a worried frown. “Is he still delirious?” he asks. 

Porthos forces himself to put some space between himself and Aramis. “No, he woke up ,” Porthos admits. “He’s having nightmares,” Porthos searches for the words. “But then he quickly falls back asleep.”

Athos nods though the storm on his face doesn’t clear. “Has he had some tea recently? He looks like he’s still sweating.”

Reluctant, Porthos disengages his limbs from the other man and swings his legs out of bed. “Not for some hours,” he admits before standing. Quickly, he moves to the washbasin to run through his own morning ablutions before he picks up the weeds and heads for the door. He can’t help pausing there a moment, looking back at his injured friend. He’s afraid to be parted even for a moment. 

He comes back juggling two bowls of porridge, a cup of broth and a kettle of hot water. The scene before him is exactly how he left it. Athos is still standing awkwardly while Aramis sleeps on without care. Setting his burden down all over the table, Porthos shovels some porridge into his mouth before setting the weed to steep. Then he takes the small bowl of broth over to the bed. This time, when he slides his huge hand underneath his friend’s head, dark eyes blink open at him. 

“Porthos?” Aramis mumbles sleepily. 

Porthos smiles that his name seems to be on the man’s lips at every awakening. And each time those eyes look at him, Porthos begins to believe that Aramis is truly mending. His fingers clench unconsciously, massaging the stiff muscles of Aramis’ neck as Porthos lifts the bowl to chapped lips. 

“Drink it all now,” Porthos orders him gruffly, looking down into recognizably mischievous eyes. 

Yet, it is clear that Aramis is still struggling. He’s breathing hard in between sips and letting Porthos support the weight of his head fully supported by Porthos. Lifting one hand, he grips Porthos’ wrist and tries to push it away. 

Reluctantly, Porthos lets the head lie back on the pillow, with a last carding of fingers through sweaty hair. “You still have to drink the medicine, as well.”

Moving over to the table, he sees d’Artagnan entering the room to join his brothers. The younger man stops when his eyes fall upon the bed. “You’re awake,” he says with a smile. “You scared us,” he continues as he moves to lean a hip against the table where Porthos is grabbing the cup of medicine. 

Porthos scowls at the boy’s words as if giving voice to their worries magnifies them. And Aramis just laughs the concerned words away, which annoys Porthos further. 

“I’ve seen the inside of this room a few times, and yet God has not seen fit to take me,” Aramis teases with a wink. 

d’Artagnan laughs, too loud and bright. “He’s thrown you back then?”

Porthos elbows the young man as he turns around with the full cup. He’s still scowling as he sits again on the sickbed. “You’re too foolish to die,” Porthos growls. “Certainly too foolish to shoot a giant beast trying to eat you.”

Aramis looks at him appraisingly. “Is that what happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Athos leans forward in his chair, joining the conversation. 

“No,” Aramis says, only then frowning and moving his hands to his injured side. Then he tries to bend to see it, but his effort ends with a gasp. 

“Fool,” Porthos hisses as he pushes the man back down to the bed. “I thought we already decided so there’s no need to prove it again.”

Without thought, Porthos grabs a flailing long-fingered hand and gently rests it on the still clean bandage. 

“Did he hit his head?” Athos asks, prompting Porthos to finally look up and away from the injured man. 

“I arrived afterward,” Porthos shakes his head. “Maybe it was the fever,” he offers instead, thinking of how Aramis swears he remembers little from the aftermath of Savoy. 

“How was an animal of that size in the city? Why?” d’Artagnan asks the perhaps more pertinent question. 

“And where is the thief now?” Athos says, the only one to remember their mission while the others become sidetracked. 

They have not yet found answers to these questions. Porthos drops his eyes and sees that Aramis has fallen asleep again while they have been talking. Now the man seems at rest, healing instead of dying. Yet sweat still beads on his brow, running into the already damp hair at his temples. Porthos grabs the cup of brewed herbs which is already tepid. 

“Wake up,” Porthos says, his free hand gentle on the sweaty forehead. When those dark eyes open, he forgets that the others even exist. It’s still a relief every time and Porthos thinks that it will be for a long time still. “Come, you must drink this and get better.”

“Yes, we can’t hang around here taking care of you forever,” d’Artagnan teases. 

Aramis can’t respond with Porthos busy pouring medicine down his gullet. So d’Artagnan speaks instead to Porthos. “I can stay with him for a while, if you like. You’ve been stuck in this sickroom for a day now.”

Porthos sits up with an unconscious growl, nearly crushing the empty cup in his hand. He’s not leaving. But how can he refuse? They are friends, not lovers. 

Fortunately, Athos intervenes, standing and taking the younger man by the shoulders. “Come, Porthos makes the better nursemaid.”

As the two men leave, Porthos is too embarrassed to look down at Aramis. The injured man hasn’t said a word, but a hand hits his leg. He looks down to see that his friend is once again asleep, simply shifting to gain more comfort. 

Letting out a soft sigh of relief, Porthos gently sweeps the bangs from Aramis’ sweaty forehead. But even this gentle touch causes the man to wake with a snort. A smile spreads across Porthos’ cheeks without his permission. Aramis notices, of course, and smiles a little himself. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Aramis apologizes and tries to get his arms underneath him. “I don’t mean that I don’t find your company scintillating. I just need to sit up.”

Porthos lays a large hand over Aramis’ bare chest. “You need to rest,” he growls, though his eyes are more drawn to the contrast between their skin, the size of his hand on Aramis’ seemingly frail ribcage. 

“I can rest sitting up,” Aramis argues. “Help me.”

Porthos scowls but Aramis always gets his way. He grabs the smaller man underneath the armpits to pull him up the pillows. “Fine, but drink the rest of this tea,” Porthos growls and holds the cup back to smirking lips. 

“Thank you. You do make a fine nurse,” Aramis says, making Porthos wonder if he did hear d’Artagnan’s words earlier. Although, it could just be the teasing that they often engage in. 

Once the cup of medicine is finished, Porthos wonders whether he should get up from the bed. Now that Aramis is awake and seemingly no longer in danger, he knows that this intimacy is no longer warranted. But he can’t make himself move away, not unless Aramis asks him. 

Instead, Aramis reaches out, weakly shaking his hand to gain attention. “How long then?” he asks. “I remember,” he frowns then, looking away from Porthos for a moment to concentrate. “We separated on our search for the blaggard, but I don’t recall being injured.”

“Yes, I was not with you,” Porthos agrees. “There was no one else to see the attack.”

“But it was not a man,” Aramis states more than questions, one hand lightly touching his bandaged side. Light fingers seem to be tracing the marks of teeth upon skin. 

“It’s definitely a bite. Must’ve grabbed you around the chest, jaws powerful enough to slice right through your leather.” Porthos frowns, concerned that such a beast had been in the midst of Paris with none of them the wiser. 

“Perhaps it was a bear,” Aramis suggests, lightheartedly. 

“Where would a bear have come from?” Porthos queries back. But he can feel his spirits already lifting, as always in Aramis’ company. “And why would it come that far into the city?”

Aramis smiles, having succeeded in turning conversation. “Perhaps it was like that one in the market, you remember, the dancing bear. One could have escaped.”

Porthos laughs, he can’t help it. “I don’t think you were half-eaten by a dancing bear.”

Aramis scoffs with a familiar twinkle in his eye. “I’ll have you know that I’m very tasty.”

Porthos sputters, for a moment unable to come up with any comeback. Did Aramis say such things before, or is he just overthinking things now? “It was probably a wolf,” he offers, finally. 

Aramis sighs and purses his lips. “I’m sure you’re right. And I was simply marked by God for the unfortunate encounter.”

“Let’s not bring God into this,” Porthos says. Aramis knows he doesn’t like the idea of God deciding his fate, not when Porthos has worked so hard for it. 

It’s an old argument and, fortunately, Aramis doesn’t argue further. “Have you not eaten more than that today?” he asks instead, gesturing towards the detritus on the table.

Porthos sputters again that Aramis would be worrying about him at this moment, and yet, Aramis’ concern is greatly familiar. It’s also heartwarming as no one has ever cared about him like Aramis. He does stand then to grab his long forgotten bowl of porridge and shoves a clumped spoonful into his mouth. 

“No,” Aramis says with a disgusted face. “It has long congealed into a solid mass,” he explains, and Porthos cannot disagree. 

“Go, get another bowl,” Aramis orders him. “Surely Serge has stew by now. And get more hot water so the feverfew doesn’t taste so vile.”

Porthos laughs as he stands. “That is the same weed you’ve forced down each of our throats many times,” he accuses the man. 

“I’m the medic and not meant to the patient,” Aramis replies haughtily. Yet the reply gives Porthos pause as Aramis has been the patient far too often for his personal liking. 

Porthos hurries out the door and around the corner as he knows that it doesn’t take long for a man like Aramis to find trouble. In the kitchen, Serge asks after Aramis. Porthos will never understand how Aramis managed to charm the contrary man. The one time he asked, Aramis said the same way that he charmed Porthos himself. 

He eats a whole bowl of stew while waiting for a kettle of water to boil, and grabs two more bowls to take with him. When he returns to the infirmary, though, the man is simply asleep again. His head has fallen back against the wall with his neck arched at what must be an uncomfortable angle. Porthos doesn’t wake Aramis immediately, but sets about steeping the herb and eating a second bowl, taking the moment to simply look at Aramis, shirtless with the sheet pooling in his lap, his sweaty skin glistening in the light. Porthos has to shake himself out of his reverie. 

“Alright, you can’t actually sleep the entire day,” Porthos says, as he gently feels the injured man’s forehead. The heat he feels is still concerning to him. “You need to eat something. You’re too skinny as it is.”

“A common complaint from your lips,” Aramis murmurs sleepily as he turns his face into Porthos hand. 

Porthos feels the barest brush of lips against the palm of his hand before he yanks his hand away with a gasp. Awkwardly, he grabs for the bowl of stew that he placed on the side table to cover his reaction.

“Can you eat it yourself?” Porthos asks, though he certainly already knows the answer. 

“Of course,” Aramis answers, utterly foolish. “Perhaps you can hold the bowl, though.”

Porthos complies, holding the bowl nears Aramis’ chin as the man cautiously lifts the spoon to his mouth. Aramis spoons up the pieces of meat first, which Porthos silently applauds as logical as the injured man tires quickly, leaving most of the rest untouched. 

But Porthos never could leave well enough alone. “At least, drink some of the broth,” he cajoles, lifting the bowl to Aramis’ lips without the man’s verbal consent. 

Aramis glares at him but does drink for a moment, before he’s batting it away. “I’m done,” he argues, trying to breathe without laughing. “Go away. I take it back; you’re a terrible nurse.”

He’s smiling though as he leans his head back against the headboard, closing his eyes slowly. Porthos can see he’s still tired, though the sun is just beginning to set. “Would you like me to read? You don’t look like you can keep your eyes open long enough,” Porthos says. 

Aramis tilts his head to the side and smiles at him softly. “Yes, I would like that. I think there was something in my medical bag…”

He trails off as Porthos finally stands from the bed and goes to investigate whatever treatise that Aramis hid away in his catchall. Porthos is not a great reader, as Aramis knows which is certainly why he was so pleased at the offer. Porthos taught himself while in the army, knowing that it was a key to bettering himself, but Aramis has helped him since, especially with reading aloud. 

Returning with the bound pages though, Porthos makes the decision to sit in the chair. The light is much better and he supposes he doesn’t have an excuse to sit on the bed with his friend any longer. Aramis doesn’t comment, probably doesn’t notice. The man lightly dozes while Porthos reads, closing his eyes in long blinks that sometimes last minutes before he opens them again. 

The treatise is not terribly long, though it is full of words that give Porthos pause. It is fully dark when he finishes, the room lit by the fireplace only so far, and Aramis has had his eyes closed for many minutes now. Porthos stands to get a drink of water for himself and lights some additional candles. Then he heads to close the door for the night. Though past full, the moon is still bright, illuminating the empty inner courtyard. 

Door closed, Porthos heads back over to the bed. His friend has now awkwardly slumped sideways so Porthos pulls at him to lie down. But Aramis comes awake with a start and grabs at Porthos’ hands with a fierce grip. 

“Aramis,” Porthos whispers, not knowing if his friend is still in the grip of a dream. Because Aramis doesn’t relax his grip, his dark eyes are unflinching as he stares up at Porthos. “Aramis?”

Aramis sucks in a breath like he’s startled but he still doesn’t release his grip. If anything he pulls the larger man closer. “Porthos,” he whispers like someone may be listening. “Porthos. Porthos, I…”

Porthos wants to soothe the other man, though he doesn’t know what’s wrong. Automatically, he moves onto the bed, pulling the other man closer. As if in relief at his nearness, Aramis finally relaxes, collapsing into Porthos’ bulk, letting the larger man take his weight. 

There is a long moment of silence before Aramis speaks again. “I suppose it was only a dream,” he mutters. 

Porthos wraps an arm around the other man, pulling Aramis in to rest along his side as he asks for clarification, “What was the dream?”

Aramis takes a big breath, silent long enough for Porthos to be worrying again at the heat he feels from the long body against him. “It must have been what Athos said earlier. I don’t remember there being a wolf. I don’t remember anything. Except perhaps…”

He trails off there for a moment, turning his face toward Porthos’ skin and taking a deep huffing breath. Porthos holds still at the tickling sensation of Aramis’ patrician nose snuffling along his clavicle. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries not to embarass himself responding to the intimate touch. Aramis is sick, feverish and delirious, and Porthos is here thinking about the softness of the man’s skin, the way his body curves around Porthos’ own. 

“Lay down, go on,” Porthos deflects. He tries to slide off the bed again, but Aramis hasn’t let go of his arm. 

“No,” Aramis blurts out, his grip tightening as he looks up with imploring eyes. “I just...I’m not tired. Lie down and keep me entertained,” Aramis’s tone turns teasing. 

Porthos never can resist so he follows the other man down onto the pillow. The bed is too small so their heads are close together, like two lovers sharing whispered words. Aramis smiles softly at him and, for a moment, Porthos wonders if he could get away with kissing the man. 

“I dreamt about wolves, like there were several around me” Aramis says finally, his tone still teasing. “But I wasn’t scared.”

Porthos closes his eyes and huffs a breath. “You don’t have enough sense to be scared.”

“I would call that bravery,” Aramis smiles teasingly at him. “Besides, I had the sense to befriend you.”

Porthos laughs a little awkwardly, not sure what to say. “Any friend would take care of you during your injury.”

Aramis’s smile widens like Porthos has said something funny. “I am not only grateful for your friendship during my injury,” he whispers, dark eyes alight. “In fact, I am sorry to be such a burden.”

“Of course not,” Porthos’ reply is vehement. HIs mouth is suddenly dry. As Musketeers, they have been there for each other through thick and thin, saved each other from death equal times, taken care of each other’s injuries. But this does feel different. 

Aramis smiles at him like the answer is expected. Then he drops a hand to his injured side and Porthos’ eyes follow the movement. When he thinks about it now, the amount of blood, the tearing of Aramis’ chest, he wonders how Aramis survived at all. He’s seen men die from less gruesome injuries. But it must have only been punctures, easily stitched by the doctor. 

“I will be fine,” Aramis says and then yawns. Stretching a little, yet somehow moving the length of his body closer, Aramis blinks slowly, sleepily. “Don’t worry so much.”

Aramis closes his eyes and gets comfortable, pressing his forehead against Porthos’ chest. Porthos feels frozen, unable to move away or press closer, but eventually he has to do something with his arm so he lightly lays it across Aramis’ shoulders. They’re curled together on their sides on a small infirmary bed meant for one, Aramis’ forehead and nose pressed against his skin. Porthos is too tense to sleep as Aramis’s body slowly relaxes and becomes heavy against him. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there; he’s just thinking about a drink of water when Aramis begins moving in his sleep. The injured man is not quite thrashing, but he’s definitely agitated, movements almost seeming intent. All of a sudden, Aramis flops onto his back, kicking his legs like a dog dreaming of chasing rabbits. Porthos’ first instinct is to restrain the other man, concerned about reopening the wound. His hands are gripping bony shoulders before he really wonders whether Aramis’ movements were violent enough to do any damage. 

But as he smothers the smaller man again, Aramis calms. Perhaps it is the restriction of movement, or simply the presence of another person, but, as Aramis snuffles along his collarbone again, Porthos wonders if it is his smell. Though, he can’t imagine why. He’s barely been bathing in the washbowl since Aramis was injured. Perhaps in Aramis’s unconscious mind, he recognizes the smell that has been here beside him all throughout this injury. 

But Aramis does not lie still, though he doesn’t wake. Restless is the way that Porthos would describe him, and it is worrying that perhaps the fever is preventing restful sleep. Aramis snuffles and kicks, clings and pushes, and occasionally flings himself on his back again. Porthos has no idea if Aramis gets any rest, but Porthos himself is exhausted by the time that the sun is creeping in the windows. 

He startles awake when he feels another kick to his shin, but this time Aramis’ eyes are open and he’s smirking. “You were snoring,” Aramis complains. 

Porthos snorts and yawns, his jaw cracking. He expects Aramis to move away now that they have woken, but the other man is content to stay close. Aramis stretches a bit only to grimace and reach a hand down to probe at his side. Porthos slaps the hand away. 

“Don’t pick at it,” Porthos gruffly orders. 

“I’m not,” Aramis shoots back. “Who is the actual medic here?”

“Now you’re the patient,” Porthos answers. “And I know you.”

That makes Aramis smile. And then his stomach growls, loudly. For a moment, Porthos is shocked and then they both begin laughing, curled on their sides together. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll feed you,” Porthos eventually manages to say between gasping breaths. Still he’s hesitant to move, to break this moment, even though he should be worried about being interrupted any moment. 

Impulsively, he gives Aramis’ shoulder a squeeze before he forces himself to get up. Splashing his face quickly, he heads out into the courtyard, stopping by the outhouse before seeing Serge. He quickly returns with two bowls and a kettle. 

Aramis is sitting up when he returns, so he quickly slurps half his porridge before sitting on the bed. Holding up the second bowl, he asks, “Do you need help?”

Aramis reaches for the bowl before he’s even finished asking. “No,” Aramis says, laughing a little at himself. “I don’t believe I need help. I feel..stronger today,” he says looking energetic and eager. But to Porthos’ non-expert eye, he can still see the sweat on Aramis’ brow. 

He watches as Aramis manages to hold the bowl and lift the spoon, inhaling his own portion of food in a way that Porthos has rarely seen from him. But his energy doesn’t seem to be flagging, at least. Porthos has just picked his own bowl back up when the door opens again. He’s surprised to see Treville, but he can guess why the Captain is there. 

“Porthos,” the Captain addresses him and then pauses. “I need you on duty,” he finishes the thought. Then he waits while Porthos hesitates and then stands up. 

Porthos realizes that Treville means to wait on him so he quickly scarfs his porridge and grabs his things. It feels abrupt, not even able to say a proper goodbye after their intimate morning, but he can’t do anything in front of Treville; he can barely even look at Aramis with Treville standing there watching. 

“I’ll be back afterwards,” he blurts out while hanging in the doorway. “Don’t do anything else stupid.” And then he is forced to leave Aramis’ side, leaving Treville there in the infirmary.


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos rushes through the gates of the Garrison, incapable of even pretending that he’s not desperate to see Aramis again. Athos said that earlier he’d seen Aramis standing and walking around so Porthos is already upset at the foolish man. The door to the infirmary stands open so he quickly enters to see Aramis standing by the table strewn with the contents of his medic’s bag. Aramis is half-dressed, clearly in the midst of retying his bandage. 

“Stop, stop,” Porthos is scolding before he’s even had time to really process. He moves forward to physically prevent the other man. “You’re not to be messing with that.”

Aramis looks up and immediately moves away from Porthos’ outstretched hands. Instead, he grabs his shirt from a nearby chair and offers, “Porthos, help me with this, would you?”

Porthos narrows his eyes, automatically suspicious of Aramis asking for help. It seems like a distraction, especially as the other man avoids Porthos’ eyes. In Porthos’ long experience that’s a sign that Aramis has done something stupid. Porthos drops the shirt over Aramis head, only for the man to turn away to grab his other things from the bed. 

Feeling dismissed bothers Porthos particularly after their earlier intimacy. But as Porthos thinks about how he left Aramis earlier, perhaps it was Aramis who felt dismissed. Now he doesn’t know how to bring it up so he feels awkward and keeps his own distance. 

“Should you be walking around already?” Porthos asks. “Knowing you, I’m sure you haven’t rested at all while I was…”

“I’m fine,” Aramis interrupts him, looking up and meeting Porthos’ eyes for only a second. “Actually,” he starts and quickly looks back down and away from the other man, “I don’t think I need another night in the infirmary. I’m just…”

“You’re going back to your rooms?” Porthos interrupts. “Are you still feverish? I’m not sure that’s wise.” Two nights ago the man was at death’s door so it seems incredibly fast that Aramis can take care of himself so quickly. 

Aramis finally turns and faces him fully with a slight smile on his face. “When have I ever claimed to be wise?” he asks teasingly, but then sobers. “You don’t have to worry. I know you haven’t been getting any sleep taking care of me.”

Porthos frowns. He has a feeling like they are not having the same conversation. Aramis seems worried that Porthos is being inconvenienced, of all things. But how can he explain himself without revealing too much. How can he say that he never wants to let Aramis out of his arms?

“Don’t worry about me,” Porthos says gruffly, “I wasn’t the one almost ripped in half.”

Aramis looks startled at the description and a hand goes to his side. “That’s my point. You don’t have to sit by my bedside anymore. You need to go out, drink, play cards, and sleep. Besides, you know my landlady will look in on me.”

With those parting words, Aramis shoves the rest of his things in his medic’s bag and heads out the door. Leaving Porthos standing there feeling lost. Three days ago, he didn’t realize that he even wanted this intimacy with Aramis and now he’s despairing of it being taken away. Just this morning, their bodies were curled together as close as two peas. But a scant few hours later, he’s left with the realization that they may never touch like that again. Maybe their intimacy this morning didn’t mean anything to Aramis, maybe Aramis didn’t even like it, maybe Aramis barely even remembers it. 

It’s a long night spent in his own rented rooms. And the next morning, Porthos enters the Garrison much slower, no longer comfortable showing his eagerness to see his friend. Though, he is desperate to lay his eyes on the man to reassure himself. His blood is pounding in his ears when he doesn’t see the man waiting for him outside on the benches, but he hears Aramis’ voice echoing from the infirmary. He can no longer stop himself from rushing into the small room, wondering why Aramis would need to return there Inside though, Aramis is standing by the table, looking completely fine. In fact, he doesn’t look sickly at all as he glares at d’Artagnan with fire in his dark eyes. 

“What happened to my medical bag?” Aramis accuses before pulling out empty vials and crushed weeds. “It looks like a cat made its home in here.”

d’Artagnan is suspiciously quiet so Porthos announces himself. “We didn’t exactly know what we were looking for.”

Aramis lifts his head from manically going through every single thing in his bag to stare meaningfully at d’Artagnan. “Athos did it before I could stop him!” the boy cries. 

“Great job there,” Porthos teases him for snitching. 

Aramis finally looks at him then with a half-smile on his face, sharing the amusement with him as always. Porthos realizes now how intimate their relationship always was, but that acknowledgement makes him anxious, afraid that he will step over the line that has been drawn. 

Aramis apparently senses the change in his mood and stops smiling. “Have you eaten?” Aramis asks, instead, turning from his destroyed bag. “Come, I’m sure Serge will give us a little extra.”

Porthos follows but he swallows thickly. It’s near impossible to keep anything from Aramis and now he has the biggest secret of all. It feels as if he will ruin their friendship either by keeping silent or by telling the truth. How can he admit to more than brotherly feelings for the other man? The stakes are too high.

Aramis leads the way into the kitchen, ready to charm Serge as he often does into giving them extra dried fruit. He’s already holding his side, playing up his injury as he is not above using the man’s pity. Porthos just stands back and shakes his head, trying not to think about the circumstances that have endeared Aramis to the cantankerous cook Serge, the aftermath of that mission in Savoy when Aramis practically tried to starve himself. 

In actuality, Aramis doesn’t even have to open his mouth as Serge falls into his trap as soon as he sees the Musketeer. 

“You!” Serge exclaims. “You’re not supposed to be up!” The older man is brandishing a spoon as Aramis approaches, as if he will add to the injuries if only to put the Musketeer back into bed. 

“But I haven’t had anything to eat,” Aramis bemoans his sad state. “I just need a little something,” Aramis lays it on thick, prompting the poor man to tempt him with food to get Aramis to eat more. Porthos has seen this before. 

“Fine,” Serge complains, half-heartedly. Then the old cook turns back to the porridge on the fire and grabs a bowl. “I’ve got some dried dates. That always tempts you.”

Fruit is expensive, dates especially, but Porthos knows that Aramis would eat nothing but fruit if he could. Aramis gives him a wink behind the cook’s back. 

While the cook is preparing the bowls, Aramis steps further into the room, his nose in the air. “Mmm, what is that smell, something smells wonderful.”

Porthos watches as Aramis comes to a halt in front of where a couple legs of mutton are hanging. Aramis stumbles back as if surprised, as if he had really let his nose lead him. “Oh, mutton for lunch then?” he asks, sounding strange. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he suddenly rushes out the door. 

Serge grumpily hands the two bowls to Porthos who can clearly see which one is meant for the other man. He finds Aramis sitting at the outside table with their two comrades as if nothing strange has happened at all. Annoyed, Porthos plops the bowl roughly in front of the man. 

Aramis picks up the spoon almost absently as he is still berating d’Artagnan about the medic’s supplies. “d’Artagnan says that you are to blame for the state of my medic bag,” Aramis accuses Athos across the table, leaving their youngest member sputtering. “Was having my coat stitched your apology then?”

Athos only arches an eyebrow at the accusation that he would apologize. “Porthos was in quite the state as your fever was high. Are you certain that it is now gone?” he deflects.

Porthos scoffs at the older man’s insinuation that he was the only one worried. Though, Aramis does look sweaty now that Porthos is looking for it, but Aramis doesn’t acknowledge the question.

“So you each blame the other,” Aramis teases. “Well, I need to go to the market then, to replace what the lot of you destroyed before anyone else gets themselves injured.”

“I don’t see how that involves me,” Athos states. 

But Aramis doesn’t answer. The other man has turned his head, looking into the distance like he’s paying attention to something the rest of them can’t fathom. Awkward silence drags on for a moment as the other three look from one to another in absolute confusion. And then they turn their head in the same direction just in time to watch three other Musketeers enter the garrison, talking loudly and waving their arms as if reliving some recent exploits. 

Their appearance seems to jolt Aramis back into motion. Getting up from the table, he doesn’t even glance back at his bowl of porridge as he heads back into the infirmary. “Daylight’s wasting. You have to get to the market early for the best,” Aramis says merrily.

The three other Musketeers are still exchanging odd glances, especially as they realize that Aramis has only had a couple bite of porridge, leaving behind both dates. Porthos and d’Artagnan both grab one, gobbling up the sticky sweet treat as quickly as possible. 

They’ve barely finished when Aramis is back in a swirl of his leathers, his bag upon his shoulder. “Come. Maybe I can teach you something so this doesn’t happen again,” Aramis says, already striding toward the gate. 

“I pray this never happens again,” Athos drawls slowly. The others agreed readily for different reasons.

Reluctantly, they all stand and follow after their friend, who has made an apparent miraculous recovery. It’s early but the market is busy, prime shopping time. It’s a chaotic energetic mess, stationary vendors line the street, but temporary carts drawn by mules are also stopped every few feet. People are everywhere, haggling, arguing, greeting their neighbors, gossiping with their friends. Aramis has always loved the energy of it, but now he seems a bit taken off guard, almost startled by the scene. When a seller calls out from behind the man, Aramis twists to see, only to gasp and grab his side. 

None of them have a chance to remark on it though as Aramis recovers and forges ahead, dragging d’Artagnan by the arm toward one of the temporary carts. Porthos and Athos stay behind, trying to stay out of the way as they wait. Athos casts a bored eye over all the proceedings but Porthos avidly watches Aramis as he looks over the old woman’s offerings, charming her, pointing things out to d’Artagnan. The injured man bends over gingerly, but he smells each weed before deciding to buy. 

Eventually though, another worry enters his mind. He had other duties yesterday but he knows that Athos and d’Artagnan have been still searching for their missing thief. The man is proving exceptionally elusive and Porthos wants to find the man on principle at this point. He may not be able to have revenge on some wild animal, but he intends to catch the thief that led them into the situation. 

“Have you found anything?” Porthos asks Athos, knowing the other man will understand his meaning. 

Athos meets his eyes for a moment before continuing to scan the crowd. “No, we’ve found no leads yet.”

It’s incredibly frustrating and there’s nothing on which to take out his frustration. Porthos huffs an angry breath and looks up to see Aramis approaching. 

“You done,” Porthos growls, sounding even more surly than he feels. 

Aramis just laughs at him. “Yes, we are done,” Aramis says lightly then moves on to teasing him. “Don’t get mad at me. You are the one who’d be upset if I didn’t have every herb you wanted in an emergency.”

They’re heading down the road past the market, where the crowds of people have thinned. Porthos notices a dog ahead of them but pays it no mind. Dogs often forage around the city, wherever they can. But as they continue walking a low sound begins, growing louder as they approach. Stopping, Porthos looks at the dog now growling at them from the shadows, teeth bared and body lowered as if to pounce on them. 

Apprehensive, Porthos begins to reach for his pistol. He knows well that animals can be unpredictable and dangerous and, after their recent mishap, he doesn’t want to take any chances. A hand on his arm prevents him, though, and he looks up to see Aramis beside him. But Aramis isn’t looking at him, focusing entirely on the animal. 

“No, don’t,” Aramis says. He doesn’t appear scared or even confused by the animal. He looks intense. “Keep walking.”

Aramis hangs back, walking just a step behind. They are all cautious, keeping an eye out for the animal, but Aramis almost seems to be communicating wordlessly as he does with Porthos sometimes with only his expressive eyes. 

They can no longer hear the animal when Aramis says, “Besides you were unlikely to hit it.”

Porthos hesitates, grasping for the meaning of the words for a moment, before he laughs and growls at the man next to him. 

“Really, I was saving you more than the animal,” Aramis continues. “I was saving the door behind the dog, as well.”

Porthos scoffs, but can’t think of a reply so instead he grabs at Aramis’ arm, yanking the lean man off balance. The slighter form falls into Porthos’ bulk, shaking with laughter. 

“I’m not that bad,” Porthos defends himself. “I think at least the post was safe.”

Somehow his arm has migrated around Aramis’ shoulders, but Porthos drops it suddenly upon realizing. He’s not certain if that behavior is too intimate or if that is the type of friendly gesture that they’ve always engaged in. But it is his sudden dislodgment of the other man that draws attention. In the sudden space between them, Aramis looks at him with wounded eyes, but Porthos knows the concern is for him. Of all things, Aramis is worrying over how Porthos is reacting to his injury. 

It’s clear that Aramis believes Porthos to be distancing himself, guarding himself against the possible loss of his friend. Aramis certainly knows a lot about loss, he must know the allure of avoiding attachments that will probably be severed brutally. And yet, Aramis has always given his heart freely, bravely. But Porthos doesn’t know how to fix this so he allows Aramis to attempt to mend their relationship alone. 

“Come,” Aramis entreats them. “Let’s see what Serge has done with the mutton for lunch.” 

“I think we all know what he’s done to it,” d’Artagnan gamely speaks into the awkward silence. 

Aramis laughs, though he shoots another concerned glance at Porthos before turning his attention to d’Artagnan. Instead, Aramis claps a friendly hand on the younger man’s shoulder and walks with him. 

“Do I detect some animosity in your tone?” Aramis teases him. “Perhaps that you don’t properly appreciate mutton stew.”

“Oh, I appreciate it,” d’Artagnan rallies. “I would just also appreciate meat I didn’t have to try so hard to eat.”

Aramis laughs heartily as they cross through the Garrison gates once more. A few of their comrades are at musket practice and he waves to their shouted greetings. Porthos is still following silently a few steps behind, frustrated with his own failings. He’s watching his friend as the first shot of a musket has Aramis stumbling as he tries to cover his ears. 

Forgetting any resolution to stop touching the other man, Porthos rushes forward to grab Aramis’ arm, as if holding the man up from the ground. “What’s wrong?” he asks fervently. 

“Is it your injury?” d’Artagnan asks, adding to the confusion. “Did you hit your head?”

“No, I’m…” Aramis says, straightening up and taking a step from comforting hands, not quite refusing their touch. “Yes, I must have hit my head. It was just a slight ringing.”

This time, with Aramis’ health in question, Porthos cannot make himself step away. He follows closely as Aramis resumes his path to the kitchens. Aramis hides it well, but Porthos can see the furrow of pain etched in his brow, the way his eyes squint with headache. Perhaps Aramis did hit his head, falling after being attacked, but he hasn’t complained of it before now. 

Perhaps Serge can also see the pain on Aramis’ face as well as he quickly loads a bowl full of meat for his favorite charge. Porthos’ own bowl looks meager in comparison. This time Aramis eats all of his spoils despite any headache. Actually, it is more accurate to say the skinny man inhales his bowl. While it’s surprising to see the lean man eat so, Porthos is glad of the change. Hopefully, it will help make up for the blood loss. 

Finished, Aramis begins to question them. “What else have you found about the whereabouts of our wayward thief? I assume that you have been continuing the chase while I recovered.”

Athos looks up from his own bowl and begins to open his mouth, but Porthos interrupts him. “That’s not something you need to worry about now.”

Aramis gives him a withering look. It’s sharp enough that Porthos actually shrinks back a bit. “I am fine and I am only asking for information.”

Athos frowns. THey all know that Aramis does have a reputation for not doing as he’s told. But d’Artagnan, ever the peacemaker, offers, “We haven’t really found anything. Not since that night…” he trails off, the allusion to Aramis’ injury unspoken. 

“What about that night?” Aramis asks. “Did you find anything beforehand? Are you certain that my injury was unrelated?”

Athos scoffs as the other two look equally surprised. “Like he has a trained wolf that he used to attack you?”

“It could have been a dog,” Aramis defends himself. “And none of you actually saw anything?”

They all shake their heads, but Porthos was the only one nearby. “No. You were already bleeding when I arrived.”

Aramis nods absently, clearly thinking over the events. “Perhaps I should go back down there, take a look around.”

“You’re not to do anything,” Porthos snaps. 

Aramis rears back, clearly taking offense, when Athos points out, “Treville has instructed you to oversee target practice with the recruits tomorrow. Since you are well enough.”

“I’m certainly well enough to take a look around an old house,” Aramis snipes, though he knows that it’s a lost cause. 

“Then you can certainly train some of our recruits,” Athos blithely responds. 

“Of course,” Aramis seems to acquiesce with a jaunty tilt of his hat. Then he stands up from the bench. “Why don’t I go do that?”

Porthos opens his mouth to mention Aramis’ recent reaction to the noise, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Aramis only submits when he has something else up his sleeve. Porthos looks over to see the same suspicious look on Athos’ face. 

Athos juts his chin at their friend now approaching the target range and says, “Keep an eye on him.”

“Why?” d’Artagnan asks, still new to understanding the personalities of these men. 

“Surely you have noticed that Aramis has a tendency to run off on his own, if we don’t agree with him,” Athos tries to explain.

d’Artagnan nods and Porthos can think of too many times when Aramis felt he needed to face things alone. He watches the other man approach the recruits with smiles and laughter. He’s always amazed how Aramis wins over so many people. He remembers first joining the Musketeers and hearing of Savoy and the lone injured survivor. Aramis was still off-duty then and Porthos never reached out to the solitary man. It was Aramis who befriended him, coming out of his injury as if nothing of note had happened to him. They never discussed it; Porthos was too unsure of his place then. And now here is another thing that they will never discuss but will stand as a wedge between them. 

It happens quickly while Porthos is lost in his own thoughts. Dusk is falling and the recruits are dispersing, teasing each other on their performance. And Aramis is no longer among them. Porthos growls and stands up. 

“You know where he’ll be,” Athos says in a monotone. 

“Yes, I’ve got him,” Porthos answers, moving quickly towards the gates. He doesn’t know how Aramis snuck away, but he’s not surprised. Aramis has made almost a study of eluding him. 

Night has cleared some people off of the streets as Porthos makes his way down towards the Seine. The rundown rotting buildings all look the same, so it takes Porthos a moment to find the building that they were searching when Aramis was attacked. 

The fact that he has to go back there makes Porthos more annoyed than he already is at having to chase Aramis down. He hates when Aramis goes off on his own, hates that Aramis can’t trust them or can’t seem to get the support he needs from them. He barely has enough presence of mind that he doesn’t just storm into the rickety building, remembering how unwieldy those floorboards felt. 

So he’s practically tiptoeing as he makes his way through the building to that fateful divergence where Porthos let Aramis out of his sight. This time, he peeks around the frame to see Aramis squatting down in the middle of the floor, staring up at him expectantly. 

“You sound like a lumbering bull,” Aramis deadpans. 

Porthos scoffs because he was walking very gently. But then he notices that Aramis is crouched over his own bloodstain. It takes the jest straight out of his mouth. The size of it makes Porthos think that Aramis is lucky indeed to still be breathing. 

Porthos clears his throat, “What do you think you will find here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even remember this room,” Aramis says, and then he turns so that his back is facing the other man. 

Porthos hears the admission with sympathy, wanting to just wrap Aramis in his arms again, and hide away in bed, protect him. Instead, he turns his gaze to the surroundings for a moment, carelessly looking for some evidence of what happened here. He gives up quickly though, and turns back around to see Aramis bent over something in his hands. 

“Find something?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis hesitates before lifting his head. “No, nothing useful,” he says, though Porthos is suspicious. 

Porthos holds his tongue, knowing how Aramis can be as locked tight as Athos. “Then let us leave this place. It holds nothing but bad memories,” he says already moving toward the door. 

Pausing in the doorway, he looks back to see Aramis standing right behind him, looking at him in that way he has, with those soft dark eyes that suddenly appear bottomless. No, no matter how many secrets the man keeps, Porthos knows that the man before him cares deeply. 

After a moment’s regard, Aramis blinks and tilts his head a bit to the side before asking, “Are you off to the tavern then? Does Lady Luck call to you,” Aramis smirks with one side of his mouth. 

Porthos answers guilelessly. “I am taking you back to your rooms.”

Aramis recoils in indignation, but Porthos pushes a shoulder to get him moving back towards the exit. “I don’t need a nursemaid,” Aramis exclaims. 

“Yes, you do,” Porthos answers with a snort. “It has been but a few days since your injury. I know you too well.”

Aramis answers this assertion with a grin. “You do know me too well, to find me here.”

Porthos snorts when Aramis bumps into his shoulder as they approach the house where Aramis rents rooms on the second floor. “Will you go rest or will you force me to stay here and make sure?” Porthos teases. The words are spoken without thought, but he’s immediately imagining another way that he can ensure Aramis’ compliance. He remembers how he kept Aramis safe sleeping together in the infirmary. It was only a few nights that Porthos slept beside the other man, but now it is separating that feels strange. 

Aramis notices nothing strange in Porthos’ words as he readily steps onto the staircase and then turns back to the other man. “I’ll be a good patient and stay in. I would not keep you from your bed.”

Porthos gulps, feeling hot and embarrassed and unsure of his words or actions. He simply tips his hat in farewell and then walks away with his thoughts racing. He needs to get these feelings under control. He is second-guessing his every move, second-guessing Aramis’ every move even though the other man clearly has no idea of what is wrong. Porthos can’t let this destroy their relationship after Aramis miraculously survived such a savage attack. 

Maybe he just needs some space, he thinks, lying alone in his bed that night. So that they can get back to normal. Porthos is worrying over Aramis like a lover, not a comrade. He has to allow Aramis to make his own decisions, to make even stupid decisions. Sighing, Porthos tosses and turns in his bed at the idea of just allowing Aramis to be as stupid as he wishes. But he can’t hover over the other man without giving himself away. 


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Porthos is really feeling the sleepless nights catching up to him. It is just insulting to arrive at the Garrison to see Aramis as fresh as a daisy and as energetic as a rabbit in Spring. They greet one another, but Porthos watches from the outdoor tables with his breakfast as Aramis teases the new recruits and gives them their duties. 

When Aramis begins to physically instruct the recruits on some aspects of sword fighting, Porthos forces himself to look away. He is not going to drag the other man away by his hair like he wants to. Instead, Porthos heads up the stairs to discuss with Treville. 

“Ah, Porthos,” Treville greets him. “I do have an errand for you.”

These seemingly pointless errands that require running around the city normally frustrate him. But today he is glad of the excuse to be away from the Garrison. He even dallies longer, stopping to buy dinner from a tavern far from their usual haunts before finishing his delivery. He knows it’s petty. Aramis will surely think he’s being ignored, discarded so soon after his injury. But Porthos can’t look at Aramis without staring at the strip of bared skin on his chest, the cut of his jaw, the sweep of his eyelashes. Porthos’ protectiveness after the recent injury only makes his feelings more difficult to control. 

He is both disappointed and relieved when he returns to the Garrison to find that Aramis has already left. After avoiding the man all day, he doesn’t even go to the tavern to see if Aramis is there, probably not taking care of himself. He simply drops the letter he’s retrieved with Treville and returns to his own rented rooms. If he spends a few hours wasting his candles as he reads, he tells himself that it’s not because of Aramis. 

The next morning, he is actually rested as he makes his way to the Garrison. This time, he doesn’t find Aramis outside with the recruits, he finds the other man in the inner common room when he stops by for breakfast. Aramis is in a corner reading, a common sight that only serves to show how out of the ordinary recent days have been. 

Putting aside his reading, he gives Porthos his full attention, making Porthos feel chastened already. Wanting to avoid rapprochement, he buys time by first getting a bowl of porridge. When he comes back to the table, he’s relieved to see that Athos and d’Artagnan have joined them. 

“You waited for the reply letter yesterday?” Athos asks him, though it’s clear he’s already received the information from Treville. 

Porthos nods. “You two were escorts yesterday?” he asks them in return. 

Aramis sighs in frustration. “The question is when will I be released from being stuck in the Garrison.”

None of the other three have an answer for that and they all know it’s better to stay silent. Musketeers aren’t exactly well-behaved when injured. 

Aramis sighs and drops his spoon into his still mostly full bowl of porridge. He looks over at Porthos, dark eyes unreadable which is a bad sign in itself. “You have duty at the palace today then?”

Cautiously, Porthos nods. Normally he complains mightily about duties at the palace. Others might think it the highest honor, but he hates standing around uselessly as pageantry for some important diplomat or guarding the king on hunts serving as entertainment. 

“I suppose I won’t see you today,” Aramis continues when Porthos doesn’t say anything. Then he stands, acknowledging them with a nod before he leaves the table to head to the training area. 

Crestfallen, Porthos still moves the left behind bowl closer to himself. Aramis got raisins in his, and he worries that Aramis isn’t eating. But how can he say anything now? His own avoidance probably isn’t helping the man’s state. Sighing, Porthos waits for the other two and then they all head out of the Garrison.

As soon as they are finished for the day, the three musketeers head directly to their favorite tavern, ordering food and wine. All of them are tired from watching nobles try to kiss Louis’ ass, somehow more tired than if they’d actually been out stopping treason. Porthos has to take a big swallow from his cup of wine, wondering how much wine it would take to wash away his thoughts about Aramis for one night. With a sigh, he puts his cup down and turns to his bowl of food. 

He hasn’t even picked up the spoon when a hand is laid on his shoulder, not just his shoulder but the exposed skin on the side of his neck. He recognizes the touch anywhere, and looks up to see Aramis’ smiling face. Porthos is still staring when Aramis plucks a piece of meat out of his bowl of stew with his long fingers before plopping down next to him on the bench. Squinting his eyes in annoyance, Porthos doesn’t object as Aramis eats his food and then reaches for his cup. He’s too distracted by the tempting man licking his lips before drinking deeply. 

“Did Serge not feed you?” Porthos scowls at his friend. 

Aramis stretches, arching his back a bit before leaning forward to replace the cup. Then he raises a hand, signaling to the tavern wench. The woman rushes over immediately, of course, swishing her hips deliberately. 

“How was the palace?” Aramis asks lazily once she’s gone again. 

d’Artagnan begins some story of one of the knuckleheaded nobles, but Porthos isn’t paying attention. He’s more interested in his cup. He raises it deliberately, conscious of where Aramis’ lips have been. It’s pathetic, he knows, but he places his lips in the same place, imagining how the sweetness of the wine would taste on Aramis’ lips. 

When he puts his cups down, he looks up to see Aramis looking at him again. “What?” he asks, concerned that he’s given away some measure of his feelings. 

“You clearly weren’t as interested in the goings on at court today,” Aramis says before looking up to receive the wine the wench has brought. “You’re an angel, Clarice,” he says, flirting with the wench, as usual. 

Porthos scowls but allows Aramis to refill his cup. He picks up his bowl, determined to eat before the little thief can try again. Glancing over, Aramis is leaning against the table, indolently as usual. But he’s also tapping his foot on the floor and his fingers on his cup while he scans the room like he’s expecting an attack. Distracted, he barely notices when d’Artagnan tries to get his attention. 

“Are you looking for someone?” d’Artagnan tries to get the sharpshooter’s attention again. 

Aramis startles at the words, and then throws back the rest of the wine in his cup. “Actually, I am,” he says. “I believe a beautiful woman is waiting for me.”

He gets up from the table then and walks away with a last wink at Porthos, leaving the rest of the flagon of wine. Porthos’ eyebrows draw together in consternation at the man’s unusual behavior. But he’s not sure what the man would be hiding. He hasn’t seen any evidence that Aramis found some overlooked clue from their misplaced suspect. He has no idea why Aramis would want to hunt down the thief alone, either. Going after Aramis right now would be a bad idea so, instead, he grabs the left behind wine. 

The next morning, Porthos has a headache as he makes his way into the Garrison. He growls at a recruit to get out of the way as he makes his way to the bench to sit down. Through narrowed eyes, he watches the recruit join a group centered around Aramis who is gesturing with his hands, telling some story that is making his audience laugh uproariously. That makes Porthos frown harder. He knows he’s jealous of the other man’s attention, though, he’s realizing now that it is not a new emotion. He has always thought of Aramis as his,  _ his _ friend,  _ his _ comrade. Now he is just acknowledging the reasons for it. 

Athos comes down from the Captain’s office and manages to call over both Aramis and d’Artagnan with just a tilt of his head. They congregate around the still seated Porthos. 

“Get your things,” Athos immediately orders before even explaining. The rest of them respond immediately by grabbing their coats and pistols. “Our fugitive has been spotted again by the docks, trying to sell it.”

As a group, they’re on the move, falling into step with each other like there has never been friction between them. Porthos manages a tight grin at the feel of everything falling into place again. This is what they do. This is who they are. He needs to just forget wanting more than this. 

The narrow, muddy streets near the Seine are a warren with buildings so close together that they block out the sun. Backs to the wall, they creep sideways through the narrow alleyways, past towers of stacked crates waiting to be loaded or unloaded. Trying to avoid detection, Aramis scouts the edge of another alley with his back against a corner. Aramis nods once and Athos hurries across the space to seek cover. 

d’Artagnan follows, moving quickly across the empty space. But before Porthos can go, Aramis holds up a hand, signaling him to stop. Porthos scans his surroundings, first looking behind him down the alley, then ahead where their comrades are also looking confused by the delay. Then suddenly, Aramis is shoving him forward at the same time as he hears a musket shot come from an upper floor. Porthos is still trying to regain his wits and his balance while Aramis is taking aim with his pistol. 

The body of their hidden assaillant falls out of a second story window a moment before other men come pouring into the small alley with their swords drawn. With a yell, the four Musketeers engage their attackers. Porthos turns his back to Aramis, trusting the other man so completely that he doesn’t give it a second thought. He punches the first attacker in the face, giving him time to slash his sword across a second man’s torso before the first recovers. 

As the man rushes towards Porthos with his sword raised, suddenly another body is rushing past, slamming into the attacker. Porthos stares in surprise as Aramis bodily slams the attacker to the ground and then keeps the man down with the point of his sword to the throat. Aramis is breathing hard, almost making a growling sound as Porthos stares at him. While he knows that Aramis can be protective, he has never interfered in a fair fight. They care for each other but they also trust each other’s abilities. 

“Aramis!” Porthos bellows. “What did you...I didn’t need your help! I had him!”

Aramis looks at him startled for a moment, before his face cracks in a wide grin at his friend’s belligerence. Smiling, he says, “I got to him first.”

Porthos is still scowling. “He was mine. You…”

d’Artagnan comes between them, interrupting them. “If you two are done,” he says as he bends down to begin binding their captive’s hands with rope. 

Athos walks up with another struggling man as Porthos reaches out to grab his annoying friend by the arm. “Your wound,” Porthos says urgently. “Have the stitches torn?”

“I’m fine,” Aramis says quickly, barely sparing Porthos a glance as he pulls out of Porthos’ loose grip. 

Porthos sighs and swallows his concerns, trying to remind himself not to be overbearing. Decisively, he turns back to their duty. They now have one of the black market sellers and the thief, but the stolen relic is still missing. It’ll just take a little intimidation for the two men to give up the location. Normally, that’s Porthos’ favorite part, playing off Aramis like they are reading each other’s mind. But Aramis turns away from their captives, hanging back and looking around like the alleyway is more interesting. And then the Musketeer begins to wander away from them all. Porthos abandons the interrogation himself then, leaving d’Artagnan with their detainees. In short order, all three Musketeers are watching as Aramis moves toward some of the crates piled up in the alleyway. 

Only the thief himself dares to actually question what the Musketeer is doing. “Where is he going? What are you doing over there?!”

“Shut up!” their other captive hisses, but it’s too late. It’s quite clear that there is something in those crates the outlaws don’t want the Musketeers to find. 

Aramis puts a hand on the top crate, his nose twitching. Then he pushes the top one off, absently letting it crash to the ground as he begins to paw through the contents of the crate underneath. They’re all watching with bated breath as Aramis finally pulls out what appears to be a dirty bundle of cloth. And then Aramis flips over the edge of the towel, revealing the relic, the skull of John the Baptist. Handing over the skull to Athos, Aramis crosses himself. 

“Looks like we don’t need your input after all,” Athos dismisses their captives. Folding the towel back over their prize, he gestures for Porthos and d’Artagnan to start marching their prisoners to their jail cells. 

Handing the two men over to the Red Guards doesn’t feel nearly satisfying enough after all they’ve been through. And Porthos is distracted, too busy turning over the events in his mind. Aramis could just have guessed that the relic was in the alleyway where they were attacked, he supposes. It makes sense that the men wouldn’t have attacked them until their prize was in danger. But Aramis even knew which crate it was. It’s just another of the other man’s strange behaviors lately. 

“Porthos!” Aramis cries, coming up behind him with a slap to his back. “You didn’t even rub it in that we caught their thief?” he crows. The man seems to be feeling the elation that Porthos normally would after getting to one-up the Cardinal’s men.

Porthos forces a smile. Again, Aramis is the only one trying to repair their relationship, trying to regain their camaraderie while Porthos is too caught in his own head. He doesn’t want to lose their friendship so he resolves to put aside his misgivings. When they get back to the Garrison, he lets Aramis bully him into hand to hand practice. Aramis is just so energetic and alive, and Porthos doesn’t want to share the man with anyone else right now. 

Still he pretends that Aramis is forcing him. “Why would you want to destroy your string of triumphs today?”

Aramis laughs at him and is already circling the larger man, seemingly unable to stay still. “Are you afraid that today I will finally win?”

“You’ll probably cheat like you stepped into my fight today,” Porthos responds, not quite able to lay all his misgivings aside. 

“You are a sore loser,” Aramis teases him before he’s throwing the first punch. 

Porthos begins hesitantly. He hasn’t forgotten the recent injury, but Aramis’ enthusiastic attacks don't leave him much room to hesitate. Porthos actually struggles to keep the upper hand. Aramis has certainly learned a few tricks over the years, enough to hold his own against Porthos’ greater strength and skills, but it is quite the contest between them. Aramis is faster, stronger, and tireless. Porthos has to call it quits when he’s too winded. 

Porthos heads over to grab some water, leaving Aramis still as energetic as when they arrived. Drinking, he watches while Aramis is surrounded by recruits, all of them desperate to learn the secrets of not being immediately pummeled by Porthos. Jealousy rises in his gullet like sour wine. These newly recognized feelings are proving to be quite distracting still. And it doesn’t help that Porthos also finds his eyes drawn by sweaty bared skin again, more concerned with the slip of Aramis’ shirt than the man’s fists Feeling his thoughts go round and round, Porthos looks to his two other friends and sits down at the table with them. 

“Aramis really gave you a fight this time,” d’Artagnan teases. 

“Yes, he has been having quite the string of luck today,” Porthos teases back. “It was quite lucky that he so quickly located the relic we were looking for,” he suggests. 

Athos looks up at him, that sharp gaze of his saying that he knows Porthos’ words are not as casual as they seem. But Porthos’ thoughts are too muddied to communicate wordlessly as they sometimes do. Athos’ expression shifts into a frown just as they are interrupted by Aramis’ sudden arrival. 

“Are we off to the tavern?” Aramis asks, his eagerness apparent as he grins widely. He throws an arm around Porthos’ shoulders. “We have to celebrate our victory over the Red Guards.”

Porthos thinks that it doesn’t feel much like a victory since Aramis almost died for it. In fact, none of the other three appear in a celebratory mood, but they all obediently stand and begin heading for the tavern. 

Their favorite tavern is quite full this evening and Porthos finds a space by the fire to wait for Aramis to buy the first round. Athos disappears into the corner, having found his own drink, with d’Artagnan trying to pry some words out of the old curmudgeon. Porthos looks up as Aramis says his name loudly and hands over a cup. 

“To the Musketeers!” Aramis shouts louder over the crowd. His grin is infectious with how close they are due to the crowded tavern. 

They both down their cups quickly and Aramis is beginning to say something else when Porthos suddenly has his arms full of his friend. A large man is moving through the crowd, leaving people scrambling in his wake. But Aramis doesn’t separate immediately. Porthos can’t see the other man’s face, pressed as it is to his chest, but the whuff of air on his skin reminds him of the nights they slept in the same bed together. It feels just like when Aramis smelled him. Slowly, Aramis lifts his face, still only leaning back enough that they can look each other in the eye. 

Those dark eyes are smiling and mischievous. Then a warm hand is pressing against his skin where the collar of his shirt opens and, finally, Aramis pushes away. But even then, he leaves the hand there for a long moment as he continues to smile indulgently at the larger man. “I remember your smell…”

Aramis is interrupted by the sound of his name. They both look up, recognizing d’Artagnan’s voice, but the boy is nodding his head toward the door. Porthos recognizes the sight of her but he hasn’t bothered to learn her name. Aramis isn’t in love with her, despite how easily he falls in love. No, Aramis just is a sucker for a damsel in distress. 

But that hand is still on his skin, a burning reminder of what he can’t have. Until finally Aramis looks back at him with apology in dark eyes. “Until tomorrow, my friend,” Aramis says, and then that burning caress is finally gone. 

The next morning, Aramis isn’t at the Garrison early, for obvious reasons, and it sets a burning in Porthos’ gut. When Athos asks him about the sharpshooter’s whereabouts, Porthos knows what’s expected. Normally, he has no problem rousting the other man from some woman’s bed and refusing now would only invite questions. As it is, Athos is already looking at him with that sharp gaze, clearly wondering why Porthos isn’t laughing at the idea of finding his comrade hanging out of another window. 

Porthos’ mouth tightens as he turns to go, knowing that he’s being entirely transparent. He’s not actually sure where the newest paramour lives so he heads in the direction of Aramis’ own rooms. Coincidentally, he runs across Aramis’ landlady a few blocks away. The older woman is utterly charmed by her tenant just like any young beauty, especially when the man so often helps her around the house. Now she looks upon him almost like a spoiled son. 

“Morning!” Porthos calls out to her, extending his hand to help her across a puddle of who knows what. “Have you seen Aramis this morning?”

“Oh dear, yes,” she says, her lined face betraying her age though her strong voice belies the idea of infirmity. “I don’t know what time he got back, but he has been up since the crack of dawn and making such a racket!”

Porthos frowns at the unusual behavior. He opens his mouth, but she doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “I’m worried about him,” she cries. Porthos thinks she should be more concerned with her room but he’s not surprised by her reaction.

“Yes, I will…” Porthos begins, but his acquiescence only emboldens her demands. 

“And make sure that he eats something!” she cries. “I know how he can get, after that horrible training accident.”

The spectre of that training mission in Savoy has reared its ugly head too much lately. Porthos is uncomfortably reminded that this old woman knows more about that time than he himself does. He begins to walk away, waving his acceptance of his mission but not hanging about to let her give any more orders. 

He crosses the next two streets quickly and then runs up the outside stairs to Aramis’ rooms. Knocking a fist on the door causes it to swing open, apparently not being latched. He is familiar enough with Aramis’ rooms that it is immediately apparent what the landlady was complaining about. A chair is knocked over that was being used as a coat rack and a stack of books seems to be scattered around the bed. 

And then there’s Aramis, standing in the middle of the room with his shirt half-untucked and one suspender falling off his shoulder. He spins to look at Porthos as soon as the door opens, his hair flying around his face. 

“Porthos!” he cries upon seeing his guest. Then he continues preemptively, “No, don’t look at me like that. My landlady doesn’t need to be concerned and enlist you to make sure I’ve eaten,” Aramis frowns as the mere idea. “I’ve just lost my…” he trails off as he bends down, going back to searching for whatever it is that he’s lost. 

Porthos is confused and then distracted as Aramis gets to his hands and knees, his rear end sticking out as he looks under the bed. But as the man keeps looking, Porthos realizes that he didn’t say anything about meeting Aramis’ landlady, he didn’t have the opportunity. How did Aramis know what the woman said to him when they were blocks away?

Refocusing, he’s about to bring it up to Aramis who is now standing and rooting around on his dresser. Except he’s derailed when Aramis grabs a silver necklace hanging from the mirror and immediately hisses in pain, releasing the silver chain to clunk back on the table. 

Porthos stares stunned, his brain stuttering as Aramis shakes off the injury and instead grabs his gold crucifix, pulling it over his head. Aramis flitters around him as he stands still in the middle of the room, finishing getting dressed as Porthos tries to gather his wits. There is only one reason that would prevent Aramis from touching silver and while Porthos’ mind shies away from the thought, it would explain so many things. 

Aramis has put on his sword belt, leathers and boots and is attempting to push past Porthos to get out the door when the bigger man suddenly grabs his arm. “Your hand,” Porthos says, opening up Aramis’ hand to see the red injury across the palm and fingertips. It seems to already be fading before his very eyes. 

“What? It’s nothing,” Aramis says, pulling his hand out of Porthos’ suddenly weak grip and heading out the door. “Come on! Can’t be late.”

Porthos is in a stunned daze as they make their way back to the Garrison, barely noticing as Aramis gaily greets all of his neighbors on their way. When the stableboy hands over the reins to Porthos’ numb hands, he looks up to see Athos staring back at him. Confused, Porthos looks around, seeing that they’re alone as Aramis and d’Artagnan have already ridden for the gates, laughing at some joke between them. 

“What has happened between you?” Athos demands from on top of his horse. 

“Nothing,” Porthos grumbles irritably as he pulls himself up into the saddle. 

Athos isn’t quite going to let go of the issue, though he doesn’t press for the secret. “Fix it,” he growls as he kicks his horse into a trot to pull ahead. 

Porthos scowls as he follows behind the others. He doesn’t know how he can possibly “fix it”. And God does he wish that it were so simple. He wants to save Aramis from this, to go back in time and prevent this whole mess. But it all adds up, the reaction to touching silver, the heightened senses of sight and smell, the energy and strength, and the quick recovery from a grievous wound. The sickness was the curse taking over Aramis’ body. 

And he can’t tell Aramis. He can’t tell anyone. They wouldn’t believe a word of it. How do you tell someone that he’s been bitten by a werewolf? That he will turn into a giant man-eating beast at the end of the month?

He knows the signs of a werewolf from the Court of Miracles. He was still young, but he remembers the commotion. Three men were attacked and brought into the Court still bleeding and screaming. Only one survived. At the next full moon, the entire Court had to hunt the third man down after he transformed and killed three other people. He has to find a way to prevent Aramis from killing anyone because that would destroy Aramis quicker than a sword thrust. 

He’s so deep in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice that the others have stopped and dismounted until Aramis is yelling at him. “Porthos! C’mon, take a break,” the other man says, laughing a little at Porthos’ distraction. 

Aramis has already turned away, seeing to his own horse as Porthos finally dismounts. He is leading his horse over to the small stream they’ve found while digging out his own canteen for a drink when the sound of Athos’ raised voice catches his attention.

“Aramis!” Athos shouts at the other man whose face is still turned away. “What are you..? Nevermind,” Athos finishes, stomping over to d’Artagnan. 

Porthos is confused as Athos rarely raises his voice. And Aramis just looks blank, those dark eyes looking out into the trees like he’s seeing something that Porthos’ eyes cannot. Worried, Porthos begins pulling his horse away from the stream, moving over to a branch to tie the horse up. When he’s finished though, Aramis is no longer within sight. Instead, Athos is approaching him and Porthos lets out a heavy sigh at being on the receiving end of that cold anger. 

“Find him,” Athos orders him simply, looking at him like Aramis’ behavior is his fault. 

Annoyed at being chastised for another’s behavior, Porthos walks over to where he last saw the other man with his brows furrowed and mouth tense. While he now knows that Aramis’ behavior isn’t due only to Porthos being distant lately, he does feel guilty. And he feels worse for even thinking of casting off responsibility. Aramis has taken responsibility for him many a time, he knows. Aramis has fought for his life and his freedom, and now it is Porthos’ turn. He is the only one who can help.

As he walks further into the woods, he sees a stag up ahead but it darts off hearing Porthos’ heavy footsteps. 

“Don’t!” Aramis jumps out from seemingly nowhere, shouting at him. But Aramis doesn’t finish the sentence, trailing off as his head follows where the stag’s path. 

Porthos has a momentary fear that Aramis will chase after, bring the animal down with his bare hands without benefit of the moon. “Athos is looking for you,” he chokes out. 

Aramis looks at him with dark, wild, unfathomable eyes like he doesn’t even recognize Porthos. But with a blink, the look is gone and the dark eyes again soft and endearing. “Of course,” Aramis says softly, before he brightens and lays a hand on Porthos’ shoulders. “You’ve been quiet today. Any reason?”

Porthos looks into that beautiful face, brimming with concern for him despite Aramis’ recent injuries and symptoms, despite that Porthos has been distant and avoidant. Aramis still reaches out to him with freely offered affection. In the face of that, there can be only one response. Porthos throws his arm over the lean shoulders and pulls Aramis close to his side as he has done in friendship many a time in the past. “No reason, at all,” he says, ignoring the disbelief on the other man’s face. 

They rejoin their comrades under Athos’ disapproving stare, but all four mount their horses quickly enough, ready to keep going. It’s only about another hour’s ride until they reach the nobleman’s estate. Their blue Musketeer cloaks gain them quick admittance and they hand off the reins of their horses to waiting stableboys. 

Once inside, however, only Athos is allowed to meet with the nobleman, the three other Musketeers forced to wait, watched over by the noble’s sullen looking men. Porthos meets the eyes of one such man and curls his lip in a sneer. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Aramis looking around as he often does. The other man has more appreciation for beauty, natural and manmade. 

The man that Porthos has been glaring at moves to leave the room, laughing with his companion in a low voice that Porthos can’t make out. 

“Do you think we have to wait for a reply?” d’Artagnan asks. “Treville didn’t say a reply was expected. I’m hopeful that we’ll make it back to Paris tonight.”

Porthos gives the younger man a slight grin, commiseration passing between them of a heart’s longing. He is well aware of why d’Artagnan wants to hurry back to the city. He is sucking in a breath to answer when suddenly they hear shouting bouncing off the stone walls around them. He’s running towards the sound, into another room without another thought. 

“Why are you in here?!” one man yells. 

“How dare you,” Aramis’ voice is a low angry hiss and his hand is on his sword. 

Another man stands and gets in Aramis’ face. “You defend this mongrel, but he rushes to your aid. Is he your guard dog?” the man sneers. 

Porthos is realizing that this argument seems to be about some comment made about him when Aramis starts to draw his sword in a sudden escalation. Porthos throws himself forward, grabbing Aramis before the man can actually attack. He notices d’Artagnan grabbing Aramis from the other side, just barely hanging on. Because Aramis does not back down but surges against their hold. 

And they don’t manage to stop Aramis’ mouth. “I challenge you…”

Aramis doesn’t get to finish the sentence when suddenly Athos is bursting into the room with a yell. “What is going on?!” Athos barks. It’s clearly rhetorical as Athos immediately continues, “Musketeers outside!”

Aramis stops resisting, but Porthos does not immediately release his grip, pulling the lean man outside with him. As soon as they’re back outside in the courtyard, then Aramis pulls out of his grip and stalks up to Athos. d’Artagnan hovers as the two men confront each other, but Porthos isn’t concerned. 

“You didn’t hear what they said about Porthos,” Aramis growls. “They…”

“I don’t care what they said,” Athos whispers intently. The man has never needed to raise his voice to make clear his disappointment. “We are on a mission for the King, and unless those men were speaking of a plot against the Crown, then you will hold your tongue.”

They’re toe to toe now and Aramis seems to deflate at the criticism, dropping first his eyes and then his chin, suddenly looking wholly chastened. But it’s when Aramis then subtly shifts to bare his neck that Porthos is surprised. It’s a gesture of submission that he knows from watching packs of dogs in the slums of Paris and it is strange to see the gesture on his proud friend. 

The gesture has a strange effect on Porthos, a tightening in his chest and in his pants. He wants to see it again. He wants to see that gesture towards himself. 

With wide eyes, Porthos stares until he’s interrupted by his horse nudging his shoulder. The stableboy is handing him the reins of his horse. When he looks back at his friends, he can see that the animosity has cleared. d’Artagnan even gives Aramis’ shoulder a friendly bump as the two younger men move toward their own horses. Athos no longer looks spitting mad, but he again catches Porthos’ eye to share a significant look again, seemingly asking Porthos to fix whatever is wrong. The assumption is that it is within Porthos’ power. 

As he mounts his horse, he wonders if that is true. There is still some time before the full moon and Aramis’ behavior is already getting out of hand. Though, Porthos is somewhat touched that Aramis is always so protective of him. Werewolf or not, Aramis has always stood up for him, but now that protective instinct is out of control. Aramis could be jailed or killed for even making a challenge to a duel. 

Aramis is a good soldier, but he tends to be a bit of a lone wolf. Perhaps what the man needs is to be brought to heel, to feel more like he’s part of a pack structure. At the least, Porthos now knows that he needs to be keeping a closer eye on his friend. He’s the only one who understands and he needs to be there to step in regardless of his awkwardness about his feelings or even Aramis’ thoughts on the matter. Porthos needs to be responsible for the other man. 

Porthos catches up to the others as d’Artagnan is asking about their plans for the night. The fighting between Aramis and the other man has held them up and prevented any chance of making it back to Paris tonight. 

“Should we head into the nearest town to look for lodgings?” d’Artagnan asks Athos, disappointment coloring his voice. 

“No,” Athos’ voice conveys his still simmering annoyance. “We can’t stay in town where they might come to continue this idiotic argument. We’ll head back on the road and find somewhere to camp.”

Aramis clearly looks chagrined and keeps close, not wandering off as he is wont to. Porthos is bringing up the rear, feeling like the watchful guardian. It’s only a few hours later that they stop before it gets too dark. 

Porthos stays observant as he takes care of his horse. He watches Aramis bustling around Athos, being overly solicitous, even offering Athos’ horse an extra treat. Generally the man is being a nuisance, but it’s clear that he is genuinely remorseful. Even Athos can’t hold a grudge in the face of such pitiable contrition and shortly the older man gives a grave nod. Immediately, Aramis smiles, looking as if a weight has been lifted. The two men are too close to stay at odds and have no need to actually apologize. 

Relieved, Porthos joins the group as they set up their campsite. He catches Aramis’ eye and they share a smile, both acknowledging the reconciliation without words. With the atmosphere suddenly lightened, Aramis begins teasing d’Artagnan again as they start a fire and set up their makeshift camp.

The light is almost gone when Aramis volunteers to go get some water. Porthos waits only a minute before he gets up to follow. As he stands up, d’Artagnan shoots him a confused look but Athos gives him a nod of approval. Making his way through the trees, he sees Aramis up ahead and watches as suddenly the lean figure goes deadly still and then slowly sinks into a crouch. Porthos cannot see whatever animal has garnered the volatile man’s attention, but he recognizes a predator. Porthos knows he needs to stop whatever this is, but he can’t harass Aramis as a colleague or whine as a friend. He needs to be dominant enough that the wolf inside Aramis will submit. Otherwise his friend might run off and never come back. 

He charges forward to catch the other man off guard. His voice isn’t an angry hiss but a low commanding sound. “Aramis. What are you doing?” he steps forward, using his larger frame to intimidate. He doesn’t realize that he’s backing Aramis into a tree. 

But he can’t hesitate or move away to give the other man any room. Deliberately, he steps closer, forcing the other man to look up, exposing his neck. Aramis’ lips part as his head hits the tree behind him. 

“Come back to the camp,” Porthos orders. He takes a chance, reaching out to grab the back of Aramis’ neck. 

Finally stepping back, he pulls the other man with him with his hand squeezing the thin neck. Surprisingly, Aramis allows this without complaint so he holds on, pushing the other man to walk with him. Arriving back to their camp, Aramis holds up the full water canteens almost as another apology. d’Artagnan takes two of the canteens to finish cooking, but Porthos doesn’t let go of Aramis until he’s pushed the man down into a seat on a log. Sitting down beside the man, Porthos feels a little giddy with triumph. Aramis submitted to him. 

Any worry that he has that he went too far and offended his friend with his presumption disappears when Aramis suddenly leans across his lap. Porthos just manages not to dump the man off of him before he realizes that Aramis is just grabbing at the pack. Aramis could clearly have just asked Porthos to hand it over, but they’ve long become comfortable being in each other’s space. He can only be thankful that after everything that Porthos has done, cuddling Aramis in bed, ignoring Aramis after his injury, and now grabbing the man like a naughty pup, that Aramis still feels that comfortable with him. 

But Aramis has always had the ability to make Porthos feel comfortable and accepted, and safe. Even now, with the predator living inside his comrade. Even when Aramis is the one injured, the one wronged, abandoned. When Porthos was just a cantankerous new recruit with a huge chip on his shoulder, it was Aramis who made him feel that the Musketeer Garrison could really be his home. Now it is Porthos’ turn to make Aramis feel safe, to take control so that Aramis can relax. 

Throughout dinner, they laugh and tease each other like the injury and its aftermath never happened, including ganging up on d’Artagnan as their youngest member. Aramis leans against Porthos’ side as he laughs uproariously. Porthos only wishes that he could wrap an arm around the other man. They’re still chatting as the others begin to take to their bed rolls. He and Aramis follow suit slowly, trying to talk more quietly as they lie down. It’s not unusual for them to stay up like this when they are forced to camp out, lying on their sides and facing one another as if lovers. The only difference is their proximity. Porthos wonders now how he didn’t realize his feelings before, as this is the kind of pillow talk that he wants, with laughter and violence, with someone who understands this life. 

Like little children, they fall asleep practically mid-sentence. Neither will ever know who fell asleep first or who had the last word. 


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes to find his movement impeded by something heavy against his side. Craning his neck, he can barely make out the curly head that now is slumped against his shoulder. Relaxing again, he recognizes the feel of a pointy nose pressed against his neck. Not wanting to disturb the other man, Porthos lies still, wanting to enjoy it for another moment. Until Athos enters his sightline. 

The Musketeer kicks at Aramis’s booted foot to wake him. But Aramis awakes like he’s being attacked, jumping from the ground with his fist raised seemingly before his eyes are open. But he never attacks, pausing while blinking heavy eyelids until finally dropping his hand. He relaxes then like cutting a puppet’s strings, shoulders slumping and back bowing. When he lifts his hand again, it’s to rub sleepily through his unruly hair. Then he grabs a nearby canteen. 

Finished drinking, he reaches down to hand it to Porthos. “Water?” Aramis offers as salutation. 

Porthos harrumphs but reaches up to grab it while Athos walks away shaking his head. Annoyed at the sudden loss of intimacy, Porthos sits up to drink, watching as Aramis leaves to help d’Artagnan who is set about making porridge. There’s no hurry to get back to Paris early and so they take the time to eat a hot breakfast together. 

After eating, Porthos leads both of their horses to drink from the stream while Aramis packs both their bed rolls and fills their canteens and puts out the fire. Porthos watches Aramis squatting to tidy their packs when the man becomes suddenly distracted, his eyes distant and focused on the underbrush. It seems the man’s entire countenance changes in that moment, features suddenly looking sharp. Fortunately, this time Aramis shrugs off his new impulses himself and rises to his feet as Porthos returns with the horses. 

It’s a surprise when the horse shies away from the man’s approach. Porthos keeps a tight hold of the reins, but the horse continues to shake his head and stomp his feet as Aramis extends a cautious hand. Aramis appears crushed as he dotes on his horse, but it makes a sudden sense to Porthos. The animal must also sense the predator in the man, lurking beneath the surface. 

Aramis pulls out a treat and his now gentle eyes and hands soon calm the horse. Porthos is more relieved than Aramis is. If the horse refused to let Aramis ride it, Porthos doesn’t know how he would explain that. How will Aramis continue to be a Musketeer like this? It’s a question that brings back all of Porthos’ fears. How can he keep Aramis safe when Aramis becomes a mindless murdering beast?

It’s a question that he doesn’t find an answer to in the few hours ride that it takes for them to return to Paris. Athos immediately climbs the stairs to Treville’s office upon their return, but the mission wasn’t important enough for all of them to report in. Instead, Porthos watches from the courtyard table while Aramis tries to bribe his way back into his horse’s good graces. Aramis hates for anyone to be upset with him, including animals. 

“It was probably a ploy to get more treats,” d’Artagnan suddenly speaks from beside him. “That horse is smarter than she looks.”

Porthos looks up. He hadn’t really noticed the young man beside him, too intent on watching Aramis’ lean form, stripped of hat and leather coat. He blinks and looks down before his gaze inevitably returns to its favorite subject. 

“I’m sure,” Porthos agrees. “The beast is certainly spoiled,” he continues loudly as he watches his friend approach.

Aramis smiles at Porthos’ stare and then takes off his hat, proceeding to ruffle his hair. “I know you’re talking about her,” he responds with a teasing look.

He sits down next to Porthos, despite the room on the other side and proceeds to reach over Porthos to grab a whetstone from d’Artagnan. Porthos hadn’t even noticed the younger man seeing to his weapons. Waiting for Aramis to regain his seat, he also begins to gather all of his knives, sword, and muskets. It’s a good time to give them all a cleaning and a nice way to pass the time with his friends. After a while, Athos even joins them. 

It takes Porthos the longest as he carries the most knives on his person, but Aramis is as proud of his weapons as his horse so he’s not much faster. The other two have left by the time the sun is setting. 

“To the tavern?” Porthos invites the other man, standing up as if the invitation is just a formality. 

But a pleased smile quickly overtakes Aramis’ face, making the man even more stunning. Aramis is clearly surprised at the invitation, making Porthos feel chastened about his recent behavior. Still, Aramis jumps to his feet quickly, slapping a hard hand on Porthos’ back. 

“I could definitely use a drink this night,” he agrees. 

They find chairs near the fire as Porthos knows that Aramis is often chilled in winter. It might be from his lack of bulk, but Porthos has also wondered if it is because of the memory of Savoy. Not that Aramis has ever admitted something like that. But he’s forgotten how the werewolf bite has changed his friend’s body. Aramis pulls off his coat almost immediately, showing off even more bare chest, skin gleaming in the firelight. Porthos is distracted. 

Aramis leans forward, changing the view and startling his comrade into paying attention again. “I said it’s probably too early to cheat a drunkard out of their money.” Aramis laughs and leans back in his seat with a wink. 

Porthos is still too distracted to respond, but fortunately Aramis is busy accepting a bottle of wine from the tavern wench. Aramis pours the cups and then leans forward again to hand one over. 

“Yes, you’re right,” he finally answers, swallowing his lust. “Best to just stay with you and drink.”

He lifts his cup and Aramis returns the gesture, giving Porthos a smaller, more intimate smile. The sight makes Porthos relax into his chair. Regardless of his lust, his feelings for the other man are much more than physical. And while perhaps he would prefer time spent occupied without words, he will always enjoy a night spent talking and drinking with his friend. 

They’re having such a good night that the subject of gambling doesn’t even come up again. Porthos doesn’t even think of it after Aramis leans over to put his hand on Porthos’ knee while telling a hilarious story. And Aramis doesn’t flirt with the wench or any other woman, so that at the end of the night, they leave together. Porthos’ own rooms aren’t far from Aramis’. In fact, it was Aramis who found the place for him. But the cold air when they step outside is a sobering reminder of his responsibility. With new resolve, he walks the other man home to make certain. 

Aramis doesn’t comment on the strangeness of the escort, keeping up a running conversation until Porthos stops at the steps. Then Aramis gives him an inviting smile, “Come, I have another bottle upstairs.”

Now Porthos hesitates, sucking in a breath as the silence lingers. It’s just a friendly offer, but Porthos doesn’t trust himself not to make his feelings obvious if trapped in the other man’s bedroom. His hesitation has already made things awkward, clearly seen in the disappearance of Aramis’ smile, but he tries to casually decline. 

“I’ve had enough,” Porthos says sheepishly. “I don’t want to be like Athos tomorrow morning.”

The joke falls flat, but Aramis still gives him a friendly nod. “Good night, then,” Aramis says, before hopping up the steps two at a time. 

Porthos walks away, but he steps behind the corner of a building about a block away, leaning against the wall and taking a shaky breath. He can’t resist looking back but he’s not surprised to see Aramis has also paused outside his door, seemingly looking right where he’s hidden himself before disappearing inside. Hanging his head, Porthos knows that he can’t trust Aramis not to leave again in the middle of the night. But there is nothing for it. If Porthos kept watch all night, he’s certain that Aramis would know about it. And, furthermore, he also needs to sleep. His only hope is that Aramis won’t get into too much trouble until closer to the moon. 

His luck appears to hold as he enters the Garrison the next morning to see Aramis already there. The other Musketeer is engaged in helping other recruits with their musket practice. d’Artagnan is even gathered round, hoping to learn a few tricks himself since Aramis is a master. 

Porthos leaves them to it, only idly watching as he eats his breakfast porridge. He’s just finishing up as the recruits move instead to practice hand to hand sparring. Smiling, he stands, ready to join in himself. After their pleasant night at the tavern, he’s feeling more comfortable and relaxed. He always enjoys showing off sparring, though he’s only now realizing that it was mostly showing off to see the appreciation on Aramis’ face. 

His advance is interrupted by a recruit flying through the air towards him, hitting the ground at his feet with a worrying thump. Porthos raises his eyebrows, worrying that Aramis’ strength is getting out of the man’s control. Meanwhile, the other recruits are busy cheering, excited at the show. Porthos extends a hand to help the younger man up, checking that no real injury was inflicted. 

His good humor dampened, Porthos is now more subdued as he continues his approach. However, Aramis is smiling with teeth, clearly riding the excitement, the predator clear in his face again. Porthos grabs the back of the man’s neck again, pulling Aramis closer. The crowd circles around them, yelling for another match between the two Musketeers but Porthos gives them a tight smile and the excuse that they have other duties. 

Aramis doesn’t resist when Porthos walks them both back to the outdoor table. At this point, he doesn’t know whether to be surprised or not at the acquiescence. Aramis still laughs as if it is all a joke and great fun. Any other time and Porthos might agree, but instead, he’s thankful that Athos has appeared at the table. Porthos can only hope that they’ve been given orders, something for them to do other than for Aramis to pummel idiot recruits. 

“We need to intercept a missive,” Athos explains. “There’s a Spanish operative in Paris.”

Porthos nods and releases his hold on the other man, giving Athos his full attention. But a glance at Aramis tells him that the man is distracted, focused more on the cheering men behind them than their secretive new mission. To get the other man’s attention, he grips the Aramis’ pointy chin between his fingers, making those dark eyes focus on him. 

When he has the man’s attention, Porthos speaks, “Our orders are to secure the letter. No fighting.”

Laughing dark eyes turn large and serious as Aramis agrees. Porthos nods in acknowledgment before releasing his grip on the man’s face. However, he keeps a hand on Aramis’ shoulder, propelling the man towards the gates. 

“Where do we find this traitor?” Porthos asks, trying to distract them all from the previous scene. 

He knows that Athos is trying to catch his eyes as they walk but he studiously avoids it. There is no excuse that he can think of to account for his current behavior. Instead, they are collectively mostly ignoring it, instead, focusing on their assignment. Even Aramis is focused, asking pertinent questions before they reach the location of the rendezvous. Still, as they all separate into different hiding spots to await their charge, Porthos is more concerned about Aramis following orders than he is on watching his sightlines. 

But, the worry is for nothing. Aramis dutifully waits for Athos’ signal before he jumps out from his hiding place. However, when Aramis forgoes drawing his sword to instead slam a man into a wall, even Athos is looking concerned. Porthos hurries to intervene, calling Aramis’ name to get his attention before grabbing his chin again. 

“It’s done,” he says, staring into dark eyes alight with power and hunger. “It is finished.”

Aramis’ chest still heaves with excitement but Porthos can see reason return to those eyes. Porthos holds the connection a moment longer, before releasing Aramis and turning back to where d’Artagnan is holding their Spanish spy and Athos has the missive. 

Athos is staring at him with consternation, but the man doesn’t comment. “Let’s get this back to Treville,” he says dourly.

Porthos nods and Aramis steps up in solidarity. It wouldn’t be the first time that there were additional agents waiting in case of discovery. They all need to be on their guard, but Porthos is concerned that Aramis could mistake anyone for a threat. So it’s not unexpected that Aramis suddenly perks up like a hunting dog as they make their way through the crowded streets outside. Swiveling his head, he seems to be led by his nose rather than his eyes. For a moment, Porthos thinks that Aramis’ senses will be a help again, ferret out a Spanish spy like he found the missing relic, but then Aramis is darting away into the crowd. 

Athos swears and yells at Porthos. “Go after him! We have to get this to Treville,” he shouts, gesturing. 

Porthos is already moving, though he cannot maneuver through the crowd of people nearly as effectively as Aramis. The Musketeer ahead of him seems to be on the tail of another man who is also running through the streets. Aramis is quite fast, but Porthos does manage to get close enough to grab the man’s blue cape. 

“Aramis!” he shouts. 

He’s not expecting his friend to turn with a snarl and shove him off. Porthos feels his feet actually leave the ground before his back slams into a nearby wall. He ends up on the ground, staring up in shock, not injured but certainly bruised. But Aramis doesn’t just take off and leave him. Aramis looks over at Porthos and then back to his quarry. And then again back to Porthos. 

It appears that the wolf has taken over the man, but then Aramis takes an expansive breath and walks over to his friend. 

Porthos scrambles to his feet. “Porthos,” Aramis breathes the name, his voice a shaky apology. 

Porthos shakes his head sharply and then reaches out with both hands to cup Aramis’ face. At the contact, Aramis’s expression crumples in remorse. Porthos wants to pull the man into an embrace but instead, he looks around at the crowd around them. Despite their audience, he strokes his thumbs over sharp cheekbones and refocuses on the other man’s face. 

“Nevermind,” Porthos says, not wanting to hear any apologies. “Let’s go find Athos,” he says with his own grimace. They both know that Athos will have plenty to say about Aramis’ behavior. 

Porthos has to let go of the other man; they can’t exactly walk together hand in hand. Though, Porthos walks close enough to bump his arm into the other man regularly, wanting that contact to remind Aramis that he is a man, a friend, a Musketeer. They enter the Garrison to see their friends exiting from Treville’s office. Athos’ face is thunder and he quickly ducks into the interior dining area. Porthos follows reluctantly. 

“What happened back there?” Athos asks with his voice low and angry. 

“I’m sorry. I thought that I smelled...there was someone from when I was injured,” Aramis tries to explain. 

The three other men are suddenly interested. Even Porthos wasn’t expecting this news. Perhaps Aramis caught the scent of the werewolf that bit him. Porthos’ heart clenches at the thought. He can only imagine that that will end badly. 

“You remember something from that night? There was a man there?” Athos asks. 

“Yes, I thought I remembered someone,” Aramis says, but then he ducks his face and shakes his head. “It’s not clear.”

Athos looks to d’Artagnan and then over to Porthos, having a silent conversation over Aramis’ bowed head. Athos is clearly concerned which is an unusual expression for the man. Porthos nods and then places a hand on Aramis’ shoulder to get the man’s attention. 

“Come, let me walk you home. I think a night’s sleep may help your memory,” he says in reassurance though he doesn’t believe a word of it. 

Aramis looks up at him with beseeching eyes. Porthos swallows hard under the weight of that responsibility, but then he straightens his spine and nods. He is going to find a way to fix this. And first he is going to see his friend safely home for the night. 

The sun is setting as Porthos leads Aramis through the streets of Paris. Aramis seems deep in thought and doesn’t engage in Porthos’ attempts at conversation. 

“Did you get a good view of the man that you were chasing?” Porthos asks. 

“No, no, I…” Aramis trails off with a slight shrug. Though Porthos knows the man well enough that he can tell the man is holding something back. 

He grabs Aramis by the back of the neck again, giving the man a little shake as they approach the stairs to Aramis’ rooms. Aramis seems to relax at the contact, as if human contact tames the savage beast. Perhaps that is the answer. If he can simply keep within touching distance of Aramis, perhaps he can stop the more aggressive behavior. At least until the full moon, he thinks. So this time, he does accompany the other man up the external staircase, entering Aramis’ rooms. The rooms are warm when they go inside, the fire has been built up by the kindly landlady. 

“My god, the heat,” Aramis says, stripping off his coat. He throws it toward a chair, but doesn’t seem concerned when it misses. The man is too busy trying to strip off his swordbelt and then boots. 

Porthos can see the sweat gleaming on the man’s brow, but Aramis isn’t finished. Next, the shirt is rucked up and then yanked over the tousled head. Porthos only just manages not to gasp, his eyes taking everything in all at once. The first thing that he notices is how thin Aramis still is after the injury, but then his eyes drop to where the wound should still be. It should still be raw and bruised and healing after only a few weeks. And yet, the sight that greets his eyes is that of a much older injury, a scar only, healed but still showing the size of the wound, large enough to crush ribs and still puncture the vulnerable belly. 

While he’s been occupied with his thoughts, Aramis has wet a rag in the washbowl and is dragging it across the back of his neck. WIth a sigh of pleasure, Aramis leans back against the wall, opening his mouth on a sigh and arching his back as he drags the rag down to his chest. Porthos is still staring, now at the seductive display when Aramis opens those eyes again and looks right at him. There is hunger in those eyes. 

Porthos doesn’t know what emotions show in his own eyes, but suddenly Aramis is pushing off the wall and stumbling into Porthos’ arms. The rag is forgotten to fall to the floor as Aramis leans in to kiss him. Porthos is too shocked to respond, having spent too long denying his feelings to finally accept this gift. 

Aramis licks at his closed mouth for a moment before pulling back with lowered eyes. Finally getting with the program, Porthos gives in to his wish from earlier in the day, cupping Aramis’ face in both hands and then leaning in to give the man an open-mouthed kiss. As soon as he responds, Aramis is suddenly frenetic, wanting everything all at once. He kisses Porthos’ chest while yanking the shirt open further. Thrusting his hands down inside Porthos’ breeches as his hot mouth searches out a dark nipple. Jolted, Porthos pulls the man back up into another kiss. Then with a firm hand, he maneuvers Aramis’ attention to his throat. Taking the direction, Aramis busies himself kissing and sucking while Porthos begins dropping his clothes to the floor, first his leather coat then belt then breeches. 

With them both in just their smalls, Porthos slows down, smoothing his hands up the strong back and then back down. He has to consciously make an effort not to linger on the pale scars that still seem to denote each tooth of the beast. But as his hands reach the waist of the other man’s smalls, Porthos pauses, fingers teasing and asking permission. Aramis only relaxes further into his hands, sinking onto his heels and leaning his head further back. Porthos takes that as consent and he finishes undressing the other man, unlacing the smalls and pushing them down to pool on the rough hewn floor. 

After the man has stepped out of the cloth, Porthos spins the man around so that they are back to front. A gentle hand pushes Aramis’ head to relax back on Porthos’ shoulder, arching his throat while rough hands slide down the chiseled chest to firmly grasp Aramis’ hard dick. Aramis’ moan is low-pitched, breathed directly into his ear. He only gives it a couple strokes, but he pushes Aramis forward on the bed, forcing the man to catch himself on his hands. Porthos hurriedly strips himself as the other man recovers and climbs further up the bed before turning onto his back. 

Crawling up the bed himself, Porthos dips down for another kiss, carefully dropping down so that their bare skin can touch. Aramis’ skin is hot as is his ardor, lean arms winding around Porthos’ neck like snares entrapping him. Until unexpectedly Aramis is breaking their kiss and leaning back so their eyes can meet. As if conveying a message, dark eyes drop before the lean figure slowly rolls toward Porthos, onto his belly. Porthos bites his lip, looking down at the other man now spread before him like a gift. He’s surprised by what the other man is offering, by how submissive the offer is, how trusting to show his vulnerable back. 

First, he drags his hand down the length of Aramis’ spine, over the prominent knobs, watching avidly as Aramis shivers at the touch, clearly anticipating where the touch will end up. Porthos bends over to press a kiss to the wing of a shoulderblade as he slides his fingers through the crease of a lush ass. Aramis shifts, fidgeting at the light touch and spreading his legs a little. 

Unexpectedly, Aramis moves, stretching out an arm to search through the bedclothes near his head and coming up with a small bottle of oil that he hands over without meeting Porthos’ eyes. Porthos takes the bottle with a small grin, wondering why it was already in the bed and picturing Aramis’ solitary indulgences. But at this moment, he’s more concerned with slicking his fingers and sliding them back through Aramis’ asscheeks. 

Sliding his other arm beneath Aramis’ chest to anchor them both, Porthos finally presses the tip of his finger inside. Aramis is immediately fidgeting, shifting and sighing and pressing close as Porthos opens up that small hole with gentle strokes. He wonders whether Aramis has ever done this before, but he doesn’t think that he really wants to know right now. He will be conscientious in any case. Leaning down, he kisses and nuzzles the side of Aramis’s neck and ear while he concentrates on feeling the resistance against his intrusion. 

Drawing his finger out, he slowly presses two inside. He can feel Aramis’ muscles tense and then relax, until Porthos finds the small bump that he is looking for. Pausing there, he tests different angles and pressures while the other man squirms in his arms. The tight channel relaxes slowly until he is able to thrust his two fingers knuckle deep. 

Aramis’ sounds have become louder and louder, those lean hips rising off of the mattress, body moving instinctually. Porthos moves then, shifting to press his weight down on top of the man’s lean back, forcing that body back down. He can feel the man struggling beneath him, ass pushing up into the cradle of his hips, hard cock sliding along his lower back. His hands go to the man’s upper back, holding the man down as he frots against the man’s smooth skin. 

Aramis pushes up on his hands like he’s going to his knees but Porthos pushes him back down with one hand while positioning his cock with the other. The sudden penetration makes Aramis sink deeper into the bedclothes, a surprised sound coming out of his mouth. As Porthos sinks deeper, he leans over the other man’s back, searching for more contact. He kisses over a rough cheek and licks over the curve of a perfectly formed ear. 

“Relax,” he says lowly, trying to put dominance into his voice even as the pleasure of the tight channel around his dick hits him. “That’s it, relax and let me in,” Porthos continues. 

His words seem to have an effect as he sinks deeper. Aramis is still making noises that make Porthos hope that the landlady is a sound sleeper. Breathing reassurance and praise into Aramis’ ear, the man shivers and then relaxes further beneath him. 

In a split second decision, Porthos grips bony hips and pulls out so he can turn Aramis over onto his back. Aramis, at first, looks surprised naturally, and Porthos moves slowly to gauge Aramis’ reaction. Lifting up long legs to fold back, Porthos positions his cock again, pushing forward. Aramis’ cry is sharp, but his body is still relaxed, hips lifting for the next thrust. Their eyes are locked together as Porthos leans forward, wanting to be closer. And again, Aramis’ arms readily wrap around him, pulling him in. 

“So good,” Porthos groans into the soft skin of a shoulder as he thrusts faster. “You’re perfect. Just like this,” Porthos pants. 

Bony knees are squeezing his ribs and he can feel the other man’s hand brushing against his tense belly. Aramis is clenching around him, sounding suddenly distressed and breathless, hot cum suddenly sticky between their bellies. Porthos continues thrusting through the other man’s orgasm, his hips snapping hard and fast as he chases his own orgasm, wanting to cum deep inside the other man, to claim him. Aramis’ other hand slides down Porthos’ arm from his shoulder and Porthos reflexively grabs for it. He presses that hand into the mattress, holding on for dear life as he cums himself, his thrusts losing their rhythm. He’s afraid that he might be crushing Aramis’ small wrist in his hands, but he can’t let go as his orgasm rushes inexorably over him. 

Finally, Porthos releases Aramis’ hand and relaxes. He kisses Aramis’ cheek again and again until Aramis seemingly recovers, lifting his face to receive the next kiss and then nosing underneath Porthos’ jaw. Porthos lifts his chin, allowing the other man more room to nip the sensitive skin a moment while he brings his hands up to cradle Aramis’ face. 

After a moment, Porthos breaks away to look down at the other man, his hands brushing back sweaty bangs before he rolls off onto his side, his softening dick slipping out in the process. He gets up a moment, grabbing the discard cloth off the floor to rinse out in the washbowl. Handing the cloth over, he climbs back into bed, wrapping an arm over the other man even as Aramis cleans up. Then the cloth hits the ground with another plop that has Porthos snorting. He barely sees Aramis smile as the other man shifts, getting comfortable. Aramis leans his cheek on Porthos’ bicep, resting his head on Porthos arm underneath his neck. Porthos’s other arm ends up covering the scars over prominent ribs and he has to resist investigating further by touch. 

“Aramis,” he breaths out, not sure what to say at this moment. What have they done? What does this mean?

But Aramis doesn’t respond in words. He grips Porthos’ hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing the knuckles, sucking on the fingertip of Porthos’ pointer finger, then his thumb. Porthos lets out a sigh of breath and snuggles closer, his lips resting on the nape of Aramis’ neck. Even tangling their feet together, it's everything that Porthos wanted, every inch of skin pressed together. So much is unsaid between them, but Porthos can’t help relaxing, enjoying the moment too much to question anything. 


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes slowly to a cold room, but the body in his arms is still hot. And Aramis is clearly awake as he shifts deliberately against Porthos’ morning erection and licks a long stripe up Portho’s index finger. With one hand, Aramis reaches back to grab a handful of Porthos’ ass, pulling them together tightly. 

Porthos moans and thrusts again to feel that soft skin against his rapidly filling cock. Aramis stops sucking his fingers to tilt his face back, begging for a kiss. Porthos moves so that their lips can meet, but then Aramis pulls away, just enough to speak the words between them. 

“Again,” he demands. “Porthos, fill me again.”

Porthos groans and buries his face in the curve of Aramis’ neck. He wants to, absolutely, but he knows that Aramis must be sore. Aramis was too tight and he wasn’t gentle. 

Still, his hand drifts between lean thighs, searching out that still sticky crevice. “Are you sore?” he breathes out.

“No,” Aramis says, petulantly. He is pushing the bottle of oil back into Porthos. “I want you.”

Porthos is concerned, but the offer is too enticing. He slicks his cock with an excess of oil before pressing the head to that small hole again. Holding Aramis tightly, he shoves forward, not wanting to draw out any pain. Aramis cries out sharply and buries his face in the pillow, but he also pulls his top leg forward and buries his hand between his legs. Porthos hips move hard and fast, already on edge since he woke up, he’s shoving the other man up the bed. It seems only moments later that he’s cumming, adding to the mess inside the other man. He barely has the brainpower to realize when Aramis comes soon after. 

Porthos is tired and overloaded with pleasure as he continues gently thrusting as he kisses over the other man’s skin, sliding his hands over ribs and belly. And then Aramis is turning around so their lips can meet. 

“Hold on,” Porthos says, breaking their kiss. “Did I hurt you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he moves down the bed, pushing Aramis’ legs apart. The sight of his cum does something to him, leaking out of that still twitching hole. Gently, he wipes it away with his thumb so he can see. The edges are red and puffy looking, but nothing like Porthos expected. It occurs to him then that Aramis’ werewolf bite may be healing him faster even for such an injury as this. 

Satisfied that there’s no injury, Porthos kneels up over the other man’s prone body. Aramis lies submissively before him with legs spread, a sheen of sweat on the lean chest, dried cum on his soft belly, tousled hair spread on the pillow. The man is a vision and Porthos strokes his hands up Aramis’ thighs, watching how the simple affection causes a smile to spread on Aramis’ face. 

Porthos smiles back. “We need to get to the Garrison,” he says. The others know that Porthos was following Aramis home and he doesn’t want there to be any reason for suspicion. 

But Aramis reaches down to tangle their fingers together and arches his back in a stretch. Then he lets his head fall to the side, exposing his throat again. Slowly, he pulls Porthos’ hands up his body. 

“Are you certain?” Aramis purrs. 

Looking down, Porthos is surprised to see Aramis’ cock already half hard again and he begins to wonder if the curse has an effect on lustful urges. Shaking off the random thought, he grips Aramis’ hands to pull the man up to sitting. “Yes,” he responds simply. 

Aramis pouts, but stands readily and goes to the wash basin where he rummages for another cloth. Scrubbing the wet rag through the flakes on his belly, he turns toward where Porthos is standing naked next to the bed and suddenly stops moving. Aramis stands there, simply staring for a moment. 

“You’re so beautiful, it takes my breath away,” Aramis says. Then he sweeps forward, wrapping an arm around Porthos’ neck as he leans into a kiss. 

Finishing with a lick to Porthos’ bottom lip, he runs the rag down Porthos’ chest, taking care of the larger man as well.. Porthos feels taken care of in a way that he’s never experienced, different from the way that women have cared for him in the past. Aramis always makes him feel exceptional and important, like he’s the only one who matters to the other Musketeer. That belief in him simply stops his heart. 

But Porthos can’t just tumble the man back into bed like he wants. They have to face the rest of the world. Still he takes a minute longer to cup Aramis’ face and kiss him again. Then they share a smile before finishing their toilette and dressing. They’re interrupted by the loud sound of Aramis’ stomach growling, though. 

Porthos laughs as he finishes shoving his foot in his boot. Aramis laughs too as he sweeps past to collect his leather coat from the floor. 

“Another reason we have to get to the Garrison,” Porthos jokes. 

“Then we’ll have to continue this tonight,” Aramis says, grabbing at the open front of Porthos’ coat for emphasis. And then the man is gone, sweeping out the door. 

Relieved, Porthos follows. Without any big discussion, Porthos feels like he knows where they stand. This is more than just one night or the result of an emotional time. There is more between them. 

The air outside Aramis’ rooms is cold and the sun is only a weak light. He is intensely aware of the other people on the street, neighbors greeting one another, horses pulling carts. It all reminds him that they can’t touch in public; they will always be a secret tryst. And that reminds him of their other secret. He can’t lose Aramis to this curse or this other werewolf that may still be in Paris. 

“What about sparring today?” Aramis suddenly interrupts Porthos’ dark thoughts. Aramis still seems happy and energetic, bounding alongside Porthos’ longer strides. “I almost had you last time.”

Aramis’ laughter is infectious as he skips ahead of Porthos to go inside the gates. Porthos smiles but he silently hopes that they don’t have time to spar. That’s a problem waiting to happen. He follows his comrade inside, watching as Aramis waves to the recruits as they cross the open courtyard, heading for the kitchen. 

But Aramis pauses just before the door of the building. “Or are you too tired from last night?” Aramis teases with a wink. 

The comment leaves Porthos standing outside in shock as Aramis spins around with a laugh and enters the kitchen to greet Serge. Porthos is still recovering from the blatant flirtation as he stumbles forward and wordlessly takes the bowl that Serge hands him. But by the time that he’s made it back to the table outside in the courtyard, he’s grinning as he takes a seat across from the cheeky man. Porthos begins shoveling the porridge in his mouth while Aramis stands again to shout something at another Musketeer across the courtyard. 

Aramis is just sitting down again when d’Artagnan comes by. The older musketeer pulls the boy into sitting beside him. “And what did you get up to last night?” Aramis asks, teasingly. 

The boy doesn’t get a chance to answer as Athos suddenly approaches their table from the stairs. The expression on the man’s face communicates a need for haste and Aramis preemptively exclaims, “No sparring today, Porthos!”

If anything, Athos scowls harder though it’s a miniscule change. “Yes, we need to get moving. The missive that we took from the Spanish spy was meant for a nobleman. We need to track down this man and follow him. Tonight, he will lead us to the other conspirators.”

Porthos eats the last spoonful of his breakfast and stands up, ready to finally have something to do. He’s turning away when he spies Aramis’ still full bowl of porridge abandoned on the table. Despite Aramis’ growling stomach earlier, the man hasn’t eaten anything. Porthos rubs a hand over his face as he follows behind the other three. The realization hits that he’s only seen Aramis eat meat lately and there hasn’t been enough of it. No wonder the man looks thin. But there’s no time to do anything about it as they spend the day lurking around corners, trying to catch sight of their target’s comings and goings. They have to split up to watch multiple taverns and brothel houses. 

By sundown however, they’ve found their quarry and reconvened outside a surprisingly modest Paris house. They set up outside both entrances as well as take turns covertly walking around the building. Porthos finishes his circuit and returns to Aramis’ side to see that his comrade is unwrapping a package of bread and cheese. 

Aramis holds the food out to Porthos. “d’Artagnan made a quick run for food.”

Porthos looks at the portion and can easily tell that Aramis didn’t take any for himself. Sighing, he takes a bite of cheese and digs in his bag for a moment. All he has is a small amount of dried meat, but he offers it to the other man. 

Aramis smiles softly and takes a piece. “You don’t have to butter me up,” he says with a little wink again. 

Again, Porthos is surprised by the ease with which the other man flirts, especially in public. But every time it makes something fluttery expand in Porthos’ chest, and it calms any fears that this will be just a tryst that happens in the dark of night. What happened last night has only built on the relationship that they have always had. 

After he swallows the bite of food, and his feelings, he manages to joke back, “It’s in my interest to cushion those bony hips.”

Aramis actually chokes at that and begins coughing around the dry meat. The reaction makes Porthos giggle like a little kid. He can’t imagine this kind of bond with any other person. 

After Aramis recovers, Porthos gives him the last piece of meat, regretful that it isn’t more. The light of the rising moon highlights the sharp angles and deep hollows of the other man’s thin face. Eating his own food, he can only watch as Aramis seems to become more agitated as the moon rises. It’s getting closer to full every day and Porthos is running out of time. 

Suddenly, Aramis goes still, alert and focused as he stares toward the house with absolute stillness. Then his nose scrunches up, but it’s only a moment before he looks away, uninterested again. But as Aramis turns his head, the nearby lanterns reflect off of his eyes, dark eyes that reflect the light just like a wolf’s eyes. Porthos sucks in a surprised breath, but then Aramis shifts and blinks and the effect is gone. 

Aramis lets out a gusty sigh and then begins to pace back and forth in the small alcove where they are hiding. Until the man is freezing in place again and looking back toward the street. Porthos can’t tell if the man is listening, smelling something, or even if his sight is now superior. Whatever it is, Aramis is reacting to something that Porthos can’t detect. And then Aramis turns away, resuming his movement. Over and over, he switches instantly from movement to stillness and back again with a huff or a thorough scratching of his hair. 

“Perhaps I should do another circuit of the building,” Aramis finally says, despite the fact that they have been told to stay here until relieved. Porthos is no longer certain that he trusts Aramis to circle the building alone anymore with how the other man is behaving. 

“Aramis, we can’t…” Porthos starts, but he quickly sees that the other man isn’t listening to him. He reaches out to grip Aramis chin again, pulling the man’s face to look at him. “We have to follow our orders,” he says clearly. “We cannot leave our post until we are relieved.”

For a moment, it appears as if Aramis will rebuff him, shifting back away from Porthos’ touch. However, Porthos grips tighter, fingers digging into Aramis’ sharp face. It’s as if he’s watching the man’s soul come back, a human soul fighting back his beastly instincts. Slowly, Aramis sinks into an arch, pressing his belly against Porthos and extending his neck before licking his lips. 

Porthos finds himself leaning forward before he realizes it but stops before their lips meet. Remembering that they are still in public, he transfers his hand from Aramis’ chin to his shoulder, giving it a short squeeze. He wonders again if the nearness of the full moon is affecting Aramis’ lustful urges as well. And in fact, Aramis doesn’t register Porthos’ subtle brush off as he leans forward again, reaching a hand toward the Porthos’ exposed chest. 

“Hey,” d’Artagnan voice interrupts them as the boy suddenly arrives. “It’s your turn to take a lap,” he says, his voice seeming loud in the silence.

d’Artagnan looks from Porthos to Aramis with a frown and then moves to get comfortable against a nearby wall, planning to take one of their places. Aramis moves to leave immediately, taking the opportunity without discussion, but Porthos grabs Aramis’ arm to stop him. He can’t let Aramis go alone. But he also doesn’t trust d’Artagnan to be able to control the cursed man. 

Making a split second decision, Porthos says, “We’ll both go. We’ve spent the night patrolling alone. It looks suspicious for one man to continuously walk around. Together, we’ll just be two guys leaving the tavern.”

d’Artagnan seems a bit confused, but nods anyway. Porthos supposes the boy may not know them well enough to realize that they’re not generally this attached at the hip. Much less that Porthos is holding onto Aramis like he’s a recalcitrant child. But once they both begin to walk, Porthos lets go. He keeps expecting Aramis to be resentful of Porthos’ domineering ways, but Aramis actually stays close to him, not seeming to be bothered by not getting his own way. 

Aramis even stumbles into him. “We must pretend to be drunk, right?” the man says cheekily. Then he sobers and sighs. “I’m sure these ridiculous nobles won’t appear until daybreak, making us wait all night.”

“We have to keep watch, just in case they’re smarter than we think,” Porthos chastises. 

Aramis frowns. “Of course,” he says. But then he sighs and looks away down the street. 

Porthos can see that yearning on Aramis’ face. It’s the same yearning that they all experience when they’ve gone too long without a mission, without a fight, without danger. They are men meant for action, for freedom. But now that yearning is dangerous in itself, not only dangerous to Aramis but to everyone in this city. Porthos shakes those thoughts out of his head and turns down an alleyway so they’re not simply circling the building. Aramis follows as if they are of one mind. Porthos tries to draw out their circuit as long as possible to keep Aramis occupied before they return to d’Artagnan. 

The younger man looks at them oddly as they return and silence falls between the three of them. Finally, d’Artagnan offers, “I’ll just go back to the other side with Athos then.”

Porthos keeps his mouth shut, hoping that this uneasy truce of not asking for explanations will continue. The rest of the night is spent seemingly joined together with Aramis as they move between posts and patrols. Athos seems to approve, though d’Artagnan looks at them with raised eyebrows. 

Finally, they see a cloaked figure arriving. Aramis growls, but Athos raises a hand, signaling them all to wait. And Aramis does obey Athos and they all watch avidly to see if other conspirators will begin arriving. 

But nothing happens after that. It’s back to just waiting for another hour until another person arrives sneaking through the door. As predicted, just before dawn, four more people arrive, including two on horseback. The Musketeers watch as each conspirator disappears inside the house. But it’s impossible to guess if all of the conspirators are now there. If they move too early, then they could miss one or more. 

They’re all tense and on edge as they wait for Athos to give the signal. And then their worst nightmare occurs, a figure suddenly exits the house and is on a horse before they can react. Except for Aramis who bolts, taking off after the horse and rider. 

Porthos curses, but Athos stops him from following. The man’s face is thunderous as he orders, “Let him go. We must capture the rest of them.”

Porthos growls himself as he runs toward the house, trying not to picture Aramis being trampled by a frightened horse. The group of traitors is simply a group of spoiled nobles, only one even manages to draw his sword and put up any kind of fight. Porthos takes great pleasure in punching the man hard in the face. They’re corralling the treasonous bastards outside when Aramis comes back, snarling and mostly dragging a man behind him. Porthos wonders where the horse is but he’s afraid to ask. 

The captive is trying to get his feet under him as he’s pulled by the collar. And all the while, he’s voicing his displeasure. “Unhand me, you ruffian? Who are you? How did you..?”

Athos steps forward, halting Aramis’ forward movement. “We are Musketeers, sir,” he says as the man finally stands up and is able to look around. “And you are guilty of treason,” he says, holding up the letter that they recovered days ago. 

The man looks horrified, suddenly going white. It’s a sharp contrast to the blood dripping down his face from some unseen injury in his hair. Porthos imagines that it was caused by falling, or being dragged from atop his horse. He wishes that he knew for certain what had happened, what Aramis had done. The good news is that the man is alive, though. It’s frankly surprising considering how angry Aramis still looks, still panting. As Athos takes possession of the captive, Porthos steps up to grip the back of that lean neck again. 

For the first time, Aramis tenses at the grip and Porthos readies himself for a fight, thinking this is the moment that he loses his best friend. But then Aramis relaxes, breathing a deep inhale through his nose. But the calm doesn’t last, as one of their prisoners jerks away from d’Artagnan’s grip and suddenly Aramis is snarling again. 

Porthos keeps his grip on Aramis, but he can’t both keep his comrade in line and help with their prisoners. He’s looking at the huddle of men with their hands tied when Athos pushes him out of the way. “You two lead the way,” Athos growls, beginning to herd the restrained prisoners himself. 

So it is Porthos and Aramis who lead the way to the Chatelet so that Aramis can no longer see and react to their prisoners. Reaching the jail, Athos has a quick conversation with the guard. Then finally they head back to the Garrison, Exhausted from a sleepless night, they collapse into the benches around the outside table. They have to wait to see Treville. Fortunately, Serge has noticed the tone of their arrival and is approaching with several bowls. 

After the older man has placed four bowls on the table, though, he continues standing there glaring down at them. “You look terrible,” Serge declares, looking down his nose at Aramis. 

It’s always surprising how the gruff man seems to have taken Aramis under his wing. Aramis opens his mouth, clearly about to deny and distract as he usually does but Serge cuts him off. 

“You need to eat more,” the older man says, depositing an apple on the table before he walks off. The man clearly knows that’s the only way to have the last word with Aramis. 

Porthos shovels food in his mouth as he unabashedly watches as Aramis picks up the ripe red apple. He knows that the fruit won’t sate the man’s hunger, though. But Serge won’t have cooked the meat yet and they have to wait to see Treville before they can leave to find other meat. 

When Aramis stands up holding the apple in his hand, Porthos follows instinctually, having only managed a couple bites of his own porridge. Aramis heads inside the barn, clearly intending to give his spoiled horse another treat. Unfortunately, as soon as the sharpshooter has stepped inside, the horses become agitated, neighing and stamping their feet. 

It starts to sound like a stampede with all the horses reacting. Aramis has frozen, standing there dumbly and dropping the apple to the ground. Grabbing Aramis’ arm, Porthos drags the man out of the barn before the animals actually break out of their stalls. Outside, Porthos is breathing hard, fear causing his heart to beat wildly, but Aramis still seems dazed, simply allowing himself to be towed back towards the table where d’Artagnan now sits alone. 

d’Artagnan looks up at their approach, his expression turning worried as he looks at them. The young man doesn't get a chance to ask any questions though, as they hear their name called from above. 

Athos is on the upstairs landing calling out to them so they don’t have time for discussion as they head up the stairs to talk to Treville. As Porthos passes by to enter Treville’s office, Athos is giving Porthos the stink eye again. Internally groaning, Porthos frowns in response. He is doing the best he can, but, of course, he can’t say that. Instead, Porthos bumps his shoulder into the man in question which does prompt Aramis to smile at him. It’s a small smile though. 

“Aramis,” Treville barks, breaking up their moment. “You just ran off during the mission?”

Porthos bristles, becoming immediately defensive on the other man’s behalf. He opens his mouth but Aramis interrupts him. “A conspirator was getting away. So I chased him down,” Aramis says, suddenly calm when being challenged. “We simply separated for different pursuits temporarily.”

Porthos stares, shocked at Aramis’ response. His first thought is that perhaps Aramis is submitting to their captain. But after what happened with Marsac, he wonders if there’s another explanation. And Aramis’ face doesn’t look like submission, with his jaw jutting forward and tense forehead. There is a challenge there, but it’s not physical. It’s sad that the relationship between the two men has deteriorated, even if Aramis logically understands the unfortunate situation. But Aramis isn’t being very logical at this point, so Porthos tries to calm things. 

“We caught all of them. And they’re currently being interrogated to discover any other conspirators.” Porthos looks to Athos who nods in confirmation. 

“And we’re just exhausted,” Porthos continues, hoping to end this meeting. 

Treville gives him a look, but then moves back to his chair behind his desk. “Get out of here. Rest and be back tomorrow morning.”

Porthos is only too happy to comply and he herds Aramis out the door in front of him. Heading back down the stairs, they congregate around the table to regroup. Porthos can barely look at Athos and d’Artagnan any more. Both men are looking between him and Aramis with clear curiosity on their faces, wanting to know what is happening. 

His only hope is to take a page from Aramis’ book and distract everyone. He searches for something to occupy Aramis and then he remembers how Aramis never ate any porridge. It’s too early for Serge to have stew ready, but they could go into the market. 

“Aramis,” he starts. “Come with me to the market,” he doesn’t make it a question. “You ate all my dried meat last night.”

Aramis rolls his eyes at him, but seems agreeable. “You two are welcome to come with us,” Porthos invites the others. 

Athos immediately declines, unsurprisingly. Athos doesn’t enjoy the chaos of the markets at any time. 

d’Artagnan however, does take them up on it. “I’ll walk with you,” he offers. “I'm going that way.”

They begin walking away from Athos, Aramis and Porthos sharing a smile. They both know their younger comrade’s destination. “And how is the beautiful Constance?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos slaps the younger man on the back as they approach the tailor’s house. “She’s fine,” d’Artagnan says stiffly. “I’m just going back to catch up on my sleep.”

“I’m sure,” Aramis says with one raised eyebrow. 

d’Artagnan huffs at their shenanigans as he peels off, heading to Constance’s home. Absently, he waves at them, clearly already thinking more about his destination. 

Porthos catches Aramis’ eyes again and they share another smile at their young friend’s romantic struggles. Porthos actually feels relief for a moment. Aramis is by his side. Together, they will buy some food and then be able to spend time in private, fulfilling all the flirtations that Aramis has teased him with. Beginning to hurry, Porthos heads toward his favorite butcher shop. 

“I told you not to let me eat all of your meat,” Aramis complains, punching Porthos in the shoulder. 

“It’s no problem,” Porthos shrugs off the criticism. Meat is a little expensive, but it’s worth it to take care of the other man. “Besides we can’t go to sleep this early or we won’t sleep tonight.”

Porthos doesn’t realize how his answer could be interpreted until he sees the smug smile on Aramis’ face. “And we will definitely need to sleep tonight,” the lean man says with a wink. 

Porthos’ own smile becomes a little predatory. He’s getting used to the blatant way that Aramis flirts with him when no one is listening. It definitely keeps Porthos interested.

He steps inside the shop first, having to duck a little to get through the doorway into the darkened interior. The shop has a few other customers inside so Porthos moves away from the entrance to wait by the wall, watching as Aramis looks around the shop. Aramis has his eyes half-closed, his nose in the air. Porthos begins to straighten from where he was leaning against the wall, ready to grab Aramis if he lunges across the counter or something. 

Unfortunately, he’s not fast enough when Aramis suddenly lunges at a man across the room instead. He’s a moment too late to stop the other Musketeer from laying hands on some hapless customer. 

“What did you say…?” Aramis is hissing as Porthos hauls him off. 

“Crazy bastard!” the victim yells back, clutching at his throat. 

And then the butcher himself joins the fray. “Get out!” the portly man yells at them, waving his knife. “All of you, get out! I won’t have none of that here!”

Aramis is fighting against his hold like a weasel and Porthos has to wrap his arms around the skinny waist and basically carry the man outside, causing Porthos to knock his own head on the lintel of the door. Even when they’re back in the street, Aramis is still fighting and yelling, but Porthos can’t focus enough to understand what the complaints are about. He drags the struggling body into an alley and then pins Aramis to a wall before loosening his grip. 

Cupping his hands around Aramis’s jaw, he holds the man’s head still so that he can look into the dark eyes. For a moment, Aramis won’t look at him, trying to pull away from his grip with eyes searching the surroundings for some hidden opponent. But after a good shake, Aramis finally focuses on Porthos’ face.

“Calm down,” Porthos orders. He doesn’t bother asking what the man is upset about. It could have been something that only Aramis is able to hear or see or smell. Or it could have just been Aramis’ aggression running wild just before the moon. Porthos looks around quickly to see if anyone has followed to continue this argument. “Let’s get out of here.”

Unfortunately, while they may have avoided a fight, they didn’t get any food. Porthos tries to keep his disappointment from showing and keeps walking calmly while thinking furiously. They could go back to the Garrison, but Athos is there with his curious gaze and the recruits might ask Aramis to spar again. Neither of those things would go well. The only other place to get a meal would be a tavern, but Aramis seemingly can’t be in public without starting a fight. 

It’s the day before the full moon and clearly, Aramis needs to be isolated from the public. And from other Musketeers because fighting with his comrades would be actually worse. But Aramis is starving and Porthos’ stomach is quite unhappy, as well. Almost by instinct, Porthos has led them back to Aramis’ apartment. With no better idea, Porthos pushes the other man up the stairs. 

Once they’re inside, Aramis spins around, clearly still agitated as he buries a hand into his wild hair. “Wonderful idea, Porthos,” Aramis says manically, shooting a quick, tight smile at the other man. “But we never did get any food and I have to say that I’m quite starving.”

Porthos pastes on what he hopes is a normal smile. “Okay, I will go and get us food. You stay here so we can eat together. Alone,” he finishes with a raise of his eyebrow to try to recapture their flirtations.

He hates to leave Aramis alone, but he decides that it’s better than taking Aramis with him. The moon is too close, and Aramis is not following commands like before. It seems as if Aramis is not aware of how out of character that his own behavior is. Much like how Athos thinks he doesn’t have a problem with alcohol. 

“Right, good,” Aramis says like he hasn’t been listening. He walks over and sits on the bed, only to immediately stand back up again. 

Then he seems to rush toward Porthos, smile on his face. He presses a hard closed mouth kiss on Porthos’ lips before darting away. “Hurry back,” Aramis says, his own smile all licentiousness now. 

Porthos’ head spins from the changing emotions, but he can do nothing but back out the door. “You stay here. I’ll be right back so don’t leave.”

But Aramis is already looking through his stack of bound thesis. Dismissed, Porthos finally leaves. 

He hurries, but there’s a line at the next butchershop he tries and he stops to buy some bread from a passing girl. Returning, his feet pound up the stairs and he knows that Aramis must hear him coming. So he flings open the door with a smile and cry of the other man’s name. 

But he’s talking to an empty room. Flinging his packages down on the nearest surface, Porthos searches the room as if an adult man could hide in the small space. Stupidly, he pushes aside a hanging rag, tilts a chair. Aramis has gone. 

He shouldn’t be surprised. He can’t believe that he was stupid enough to leave the man on his own. And yet, he supposes that he thought things would work out, that Aramis wouldn’t really lose himself. He didn’t really think that he would lose Aramis, not the Aramis that walked out of Savoy still sane.

Methodically, he searches for the Musketeer all over town. He goes to the Garrison, and their favorite pubs, Aramis’ favorite churches, the market. Porthos even goes to the home of the latest woman, that’s how methodical he is. Eventually, there’s nothing left but to randomly walk the city hoping to hear a commotion. 

Or he could take the time away from Aramis to make his plans for tomorrow night. He still has hope enough that Aramis will come back in time to need the arrangements Porthos has made. And by the time he’s done and stumbles back to Aramis’ rooms, the sleepless night has caught up to him. He’s tired enough that he falls straight into Aramis’ bed with his boots on and goes to sleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

The slamming of the door wakes him up the next morning. Startled, Porthos sits up, blinking heavy eyelids against the dawn sun coming in through the east facing windows. But he quickly recognizes Aramis standing in front of him. The man looks haggard, from what Porthos can see. Aramis is holding his head with both hands, pacing in a short circle and muttering to himself in a voice too low for Porthos to hear. 

Awake, Porthos rushes out of bed and practically tackles the other man in a hug, squeezing the other man within an inch of his miserable life. But Aramis doesn’t respond, only lets Porthos wrap arms around him while he continues holding his head. Finally releasing the other man, Porthos grasps Aramis’ head himself and tries to get the other man to look at him. Aramis’ eyes are wild and, even this close, Porthos can’t make out the words of what he’s saying. 

“Aramis, Aramis, look at me,” Porthos says forcefully. 

“Porthos,” Aramis gasps. It’s like he’s only just realizing that he’s not alone. “Porthos, I don’t...I need...I…”

“Calm down,” Porthos says, becoming more calm as Aramis is agitated. He needs to be in control of this situation. “Tell me where you’ve been.”

“I don’t know,” Aramis says breathlessly. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Just sit down,” Porthos says, pushing the other man towards the bed. 

But suddenly Aramis is breaking free of his grip. “I don’t want to sit down,” he snarls. He turns to the room’s one table and slams his fists down so hard that the wooden table cracks. It’s a sudden commotion of crashing wood and falling papers. Even Aramis is surprised as he stumbles back from his destruction and then falls on his ass. 

Porthos is kneeling in front of Aramis a second later. Aramis shakes his head, trying to evade the man’s hands. “No, I’m just...I’m so hungry,” Aramis finally says miserably. 

Porthos brightens. “I did manage to get food,” he says as he grabs his bag from amongst the wreckage of what was on the table. He opens the wrapped package of dried meat and offers a piece to the other man. 

Aramis is blatantly sniffing the air and grabs the meat in his fist. Still, he looks fairly disappointed as he gnaws at it. Porthos wonders if Aramis knows what it is that he really craves. While on the floor, Porthos manages to find a quill and a spilled bottle of ink. There’s enough still in the bottle for him to write out a quick message while sitting on the floor. 

Folding the paper, he stands and goes to the door. He isn’t leaving Aramis alone for a second today but manages to flag down a young boy, giving him a coin to deliver the letter to the Garrison. He prays that Treville has duties for Athos and d’Artagnan, but the two men will show up eventually, wanting to know what’s going on. 

Ducking back into Aramis’ room, he isn’t surprised to see Aramis is standing again, apparently recovered from his fit of anger and is back to pacing the room and gnawing on the meat. He looks up at the sound of the door closing like he hadn’t noticed what Porthos was doing until just now. 

“Oh, we have to get to the Garrison. Let’s gp,” Aramis says like it’s only just occurred to him that they’re late. 

But Porthos doesn’t move aside from the door as Aramis approaches. “I’ve just sent a note that we are not able to be at the Garrison today. You are too ill.”

Aramis grins. “Porthos, you cheat,” Aramis says teasingly. “Well, if we have the day to ourselves then let’s go out.”

He takes another step, but Porthos grabs his shoulders to stop him. “Let’s stay in,” he says quickly while racking his brain for something to keep Aramis inside. “Besides you’re filthy,” Porthos says. 

It’s the truth. Aramis looks like he’s been rolling in the dirt and maybe he has. But it gives Porthos an idea. “You need a bath,” he declares. “You can’t wash all that off in the basin.”

The other man looks down at his slender fingers like he’s just noticing the dirt. “Today isn’t the day that I normally bathe,” he says, though Porthos isn’t sure if the statement is an objection or not. 

“I’m sure she won’t mind,” Porthos says. “Come downstairs.”

Aramis responds as Porthos adds dominance to his voice, following as Porthos heads out the rarely used door to the inside of the house. They head down the stairwell together. Porthos doesn’t even have the opportunity to call out to the landlady when she appears to meet them.   
“Oh, do you need something dear?” she asks. “Such commotion these past nights. And you look so thin and tired!”  
Porthos knows an opportunity when he sees one. “Yes, ma’am, Aramis is feeling poorly after a couple long nights with the Musketeers,” he explains. “Could you possibly…?”

He doesn’t even get the words out when she interrupts him. “A stew! He needs a good meal!” she declares. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Porthos agrees. 

“Oh, no,” Aramis pipes up. “Don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother,” she snaps back, suddenly looking as fierce as any mother. “And look at you. You’re filthy.”

Porthos can’t help the smile as a plan comes together. “Could we use the tub?”

“Of course!” the old woman cries. “Come and move it out of the kitchen so I can still cook.”

The woman is already bustling away, assuming that the two men will simply follow her instructions. And they do. They set up the tub in an old study under her careful direction. Then she’s off to the market while the two men fetch and heat the water. It’s at least a distraction, something for Aramis to focus on, something physical and mindless. Aramis seems to calm under Porthos’ gentle commands. 

By the time that the bath is ready, Aramis is only too happy to strip quickly, eager to get in. He jumps in so quick that water splashes out on the floor before settling back with a happy sigh. 

“Watch it,” Porthos chides good naturedly. 

He grabs a chair and pulls it to sit near the tub. He’s trying to keep a positive attitude, but he is concerned. Aramis is too skinny, this curse seemingly eating him from within. Next month, Porthos will be sure to feed him more meat. 

He shakes his head at the thought. Perhaps he should just be hoping that there will be a next month for them. Leaning forward in his chair, he drops a bar of lye soap into the tub where the other man is relaxing. Aramis’ eyes shoot open and then he grabs the rag draped over the side of the tub. Porthos watches with growing dismay as Aramis scrubs the dirt off his skin with growing intensity. 

“Leave yourself some skin,” Porthos growls, catching the other man’s attention. 

Aramis smiles sheepishly and lets up a little, running the rag less vigorously over his arms. Porthos hands him a small brush for his nails as he knows how fastidious Aramis is. He watches as Aramis cleans every speck of dirt, from under his nails and between his toes until he ducks his head under and runs the soap over his hair as well. 

Porthos smiles as Aramis comes up, pushing wet hair out of his face, droplets caught on his eyelashes. He leans forward again to hand over a small bottle of the sweet oil that Aramis uses after a bath, but Aramis takes his hand rather than the bottle. Aramis’ dark eyes turn mischievous, inviting as he pulls Porthos’ arm. 

“Why don’t you join me?” Aramis invites. “I’m not filthy now,” he purrs. 

“No, but the water is,” Porthos says even as he’s standing up from his chair, only a token protest. 

Unfortunately, their game is interrupted by a pounding noise. It’s not coming from the front door, though. 

“You have a visitor,” the old lady calls out to them.

Porthos jerks back, having not realized that she had come home. Then he puts his hand over his face. He knows who their visitor must be. 

“Stay here,” Porthos orders gruffly as he turns away. 

He goes up the inside stairway back to Aramis’ room so he can open the outside door there. He’s unsurprised to see Athos and d’Artagnan. 

“What’s happened?” Athos demands, pushing past Porthos into the room. 

d’Artagnan follows the eldest inside, shrugging at Porthos as he passes. Porthos shuts the door and looks at Athos pacing the room like he’s trying to find their missing fourth. Then Athos turns his ire on Porthos. 

“Where is he? What is going on?” Athos asks. “Whatever this is, it can’t interfere with your duties as Musketeers.”

Porthos frowns in confusion at the other man, wondering exactly what Athos thinks the problem is. “No, it,” he pauses to gather his thoughts. “Aramis is sick. Maybe it was being out in the cold the other night, but it’s not serious, a bit of fever. But after his injury…” Porthos trails off, hoping that the two men will assume he’s just being overly protective.

Athos’ eyes are piercing, clearly trying to read him but finding it more difficult than usual. d’Artagnan breaks the silence with his usual naivete. 

“I guess it’s not unusual for him to have a relapse, considering how quickly he recovered,” d’Artagnan rationalizes. But then he stops in front of the broken table. “What happened here?”

“Nothing,” Porthos struggles. “Just a bit of roughhousing.”

Athos’ eyes narrow at that excuse, but Porthos knows it’s too late to come up with another. And then Aramis comes in through the inner door. 

“Athos! d’Artagnan!” the man cries cheerily. “Didn’t Porthos tell you that we weren’t fit for duty today? Or has something happened?”

“No,” d’Artagnan answers as Athos looks on grumpily. “We just wanted to check on you that nothing dire had happened here.” The elder man is clearly looking over Aramis critically, though the man does look fairly pathetic, with his wet hair, ruddy face and hollow cheeks.

“Nothing dire,” Aramis laughs off the comment. Porthos watches though as Athos looks pointedly between the broken table and Aramis. The sharpshooter somehow manages to look both guilty and innocent, a talent that Porthos knows drives Athos insane.

d’Artagnan laughs along, seeming to think that the two were just skiving off duty today. “Well, the two of us need to get back to the Garrison. Now that we see that you are both still breathing,” d’Artagnan laughs at his own joke and opens the door to the outside stairway. Athos quietly follows. 

Porthos is breathing hard once they leave. He feels anxious and sweaty. It’s a difficult thing to lie to these people who have become his home. And as he turns to look at Aramis, he’s still lying. 

Aramis appears undisturbed by their visitors. The man rubs a clean cloth through his hair, his un-tied shirt more off than on. He smiles at Porthos, flirtatious again with a curl falling over his forehead. Porthos can’t help but smile back. 

“Boys!” the landlady calls. “The meal is ready!”

“Foiled again,” Aramis teases, throwing the cloth to his washstand and pulling up his shirt. 

Porthos can’t help catching Aramis at the door, taking that face in his hands so he can steal a kiss. He’s just pleased that it seems Aramis’ mood has swung back to jovial. And Aramis is smiling as they separate. 

“If it were anything but food right now,” Aramis teases before he disappears out the door. 

Porthos manages to grab an arm before Aramis goes charging down the stairs. Aramis would never want to do anything to scare his landlady. Porthos feels this responsibility not just to keep Aramis safe, but to save Aramis’ soul. Especially tonight. 

Holding onto Aramis’ elbow, Porthos enters the dining room where the old woman is setting the table. “Sit, sit,” she cries upon seeing them. 

Aramis is audibly sniffing the air and he pulls at Porthos’ tight grip. Porthos smiles tightly at their hostess and pushes Aramis down in a seat. “Is there anything we can do to help,” he offers politely. 

“Oh no, sit,” she responds. 

Porthos awkwardly takes the seat beside Aramis. Normally, Aramis is the polite one, the helpful one, the one charming old ladies and easing their way in society which allows Porthos to be his usual surly self. But now the world is a bit topsy-turvy. 

The landlady gives him a strange look at his choice to sit beside the other man rather than across the table, but she recovers and serves two bowls of the stew. Aramis reaches to grab his immediately, fishing out the chunks of meat without ever letting the bowl hit the table. 

Porthos freezes in the midst of taking his own bowl, unsure how to excuse his friend’s animalistic behavior. But after a moment’s pause, the landlady seats herself with a small coo. 

“The poor dear, he’s just starving,” she says, not being put off by her tenant’s behavior. In fact, she’s standing up again to serve him another helping. 

Porthos begins to eat hesitantly as Aramis gobbles up his second portion, leaving the vegetables behind. Fortunately, after eating that Aramis seems to regain some of his wits. He puts the bowl down and picks up his spoon. 

“This was so kind of you,” Aramis butters her up. “You have done so much for me that I could never repay you for your kindness.”

Porthos can practically see how the old woman seems to unfurl like a flower at the praise. “And did you see Msr Slatterly at the market earlier?” Aramis asks. 

The question has a light gleaming in her clouded eyes as she launches into a rehashing of all the latest gossip. The whole conversation goes over Porthos’ head, but somehow Aramis manages to keep up, seemingly listening intently and even asking pertinent questions. Aramis even manages to serve himself another portion and eat it like a normal person, though his bowl is so full of leftover vegetables that he’s making a mess. 

Eventually, the story and the meal are finished. The two men help the old woman clean up for a minute before she shoos them away. The change in Aramis is marked, his energy much higher. It must be because he’s finally eaten some meat, though as Porthos looks out the window at the sun going down, he wonders if it’s also something much more sinister. It won’t be long and they will need to leave well before dark. 

Of course, he’ll have to convince Aramis to go with him. He’s thought of a few different lies, but they all seem transparent. Aramis is currently flitting between oiling his hair in the mirror and then cleaning up a few pieces of the destroyed table and all while talking to Porthos on a dozen different topics. Aramis drops a table leg by the door and then turns to his stack of religious treatises on the side table. 

“I just got this one, by...I really should clean this more often,” Aramis switches topics half-way through the sentences. He swivels then to look at something else. “Hey, have you seen my, my…” Aramis flutters his hands like he’s forgotten the words. 

It’s all making Porthos very concerned and he starts thinking that they should go now instead of waiting any longer. “Hey, Athos gave us a little job for tonight, nothing too big, just if you were feeling better…” Porthos starts, feeling defensive even as he begins the lie. 

Aramis’ head swivels over to him like a hunting dog. “Let’s go!” Aramis declares, suddenly excited. 

“Well, I...don’t you want to hear what?” Porthos tries to elaborate. 

But Aramis is already tying his swordbelt on and grabbing his leathers. “You can tell me on the way,” he says with a grin that lights up his face. 

Porthos smiles. All the lies that he prepared are unnecessary, because Aramis has always trusted him without reason or explanation. Aramis has always had his back. He puts his own coat on and follows, hurrying to catch up. He grabs the back of Aramis’ neck, not caring if anyone thinks it’s strange. Only a moment later Aramis bares his teeth for just a moment at a passing man so Porthos isn’t taking any chances as they walk through the city. 

It’s ironic, Porthos thinks. He’s the one who’s anxious though it’s not him who is cursed, not him who is about to change into a monster tonight, not him who is being tricked by his best friend. And lover. 

“Porthos! Wait!” a familiar voice calls out to them and Porthos visibly startles. He closes his eyes and hopes that the voice was a hallucination. Surely, the visit earlier assured his comrades that they were both well enough. 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis greets, killing Porthos’ hope. “Where are you two off to? The tavern?”

d’Artagnan catches up to them and laughs a little. “No, Athos was concerned about the two of you. He said it seemed as if you two were hiding something. So, tell us what you are up to.”

“Porthos,” Aramis prompts. 

“Uhh, well, I thought we’d check out...I mean, I heard that a prisoner at the Chatelet was spreading some information,” Porthos finally gets out. “So I thought we’d do some undercover work.”

Porthos avoids Athos’ eyes like the plague and instead looks at Aramis who nods along like this isn’t the first he’s hearing of this plan. 

But it doesn’t stop Athos from asking questions. “Those nobles we caught are imprisoned at the Chatelet. You’ve heard they’re talking, giving away some secrets to their cellmates?”

“Something like that,” Porthos prevaricates. “I mean, it’s just in case we missed one of the conspirators. Probably nothing.”

Porthos rushes ahead as they reach the gates of the Chatelet, speaking quietly to the guards of the deal struck last night and exchanging coin for a package that he stuffs inside his coat. Finished with one problem, Porthos then rushes ahead to the doors of the prison, again reminding the guards of the deal struck with an extra coin. When Aramis catches up to him, the dark eyes are narrowed like the eyes of a wolf on the scent of prey and he cocks his head at every sound of the prisoners inside. It’s like Aramis can now smell the evil of the men imprisoned. 

“You two are kind of ruining the charade,” Porthos complains as the other two men catch up. “You don’t have to stay tonight. We will brief you first thing tomorrow morning.”

Athos’ face is stony. “I think I’d like to stay awhile.”

d’Artagnan chimes in with a much frienderly aside. “We can’t let you two have all the glory.”

Porthos turns away before his frustration shows. He leads them down a long stairwell and then a long hallway, past most of the other cells until they enter a large room with a single cell inside. Porthos locks the door of the room behind them before he steps forward to unlock the bars of the cell. 

“Alright, Aramis, you’re the bait. Take off your cape and leathers,” Porthos orders. “And your fancy necklace and boots, too. Those give you away.”

Aramis is distracted, though he isn’t resistant. He takes off his coat while still cocking his head as if listening through the walls. But then he seems to come back to the present. “How did I know that I would be the prisoner in this operation?” he teases with a smirk. 

“What can I say?” Porthos jokes back as he collects Aramis’ things. “I just make the better jailer.”

“You clearly don’t remember the last time that you were injured then,” d’Artagnan jokes about Aramis’ protective nature. 

Aramis chuckles, but Porthos is beginning to become nervous about the time. There are no windows down here, but it just feels like the moon is rising. His fears are realized when Aramis moves to enter the cell and suddenly doubles over, grasping at the bars for stability. 

“Aramis?” Porthos asks in a tight voice. 

“Fine,” Aramis says in an equally tight voice. He stands up and continues walking into the cell. 

Porthos swallows, wants to hold the other man, take away his pain, protect him. But it’s not possible. Porthos can’t save Aramis from this and locking him in a cage is the best he can do. The key is turning in the lock when Aramis doubles over again with a groan. 

“Aramis,” Porthos calls out from the other side of the bars. “Aramis, you are going to be fine. Do you hear me?”

Aramis’ only response is a further groan as he drops to his knees. d’Artagnan is suddenly beside Porthos, both staring at their cursed friend. “What’s wrong?” the younger man asks urgently. “Does he need a doctor?”

Porthos grits his teeth, already resentful of the other man’s questioning when he needs to focus on Aramis who is now fully on the floor curled up in a ball. “No doctor,” he says. 

Aramis is curled into a ball of misery, panting as he shivers and shakes. The bars that Porthos is clenching in his fists suddenly begin shaking as well. 

“What’s happening?” Athos growls angrily. “Open the door!” he yells as he shakes the bars.

“No,” Porthos shouts, moving away from the cell door. “We can’t open it.”

Athos whirls on him angrily. “Tell me what is going on.”

Porthos shakes his head, unable to explain. A loud pop brings his attention back to the cage, what sounded like a bone being broken. Aramis lets out a whimpering moan, flopping onto his back as his limbs seize jerk as if in a fit.

“Open the door!” d’Artagnan yells at Porthos from one side. 

Athos is on his other side, roaring, “What is going on?” Their voices competing with the sound of Aramis beginning to scream as his body seizes in a painful-looking arch.

Porthos feels as if someone has reached into his chest as he watches, distracted enough that he lets the key be yanked out of his hand. Immediately, he turns toward d’Artagnan to get it back, but Athos is grabbing his arms. “What are you doing?” Athos continues yelling. 

Porthos is prepared to fight to stop the other two men from interfering. He knocks off Athos’ arm and then backhands him so he can rush after d’Artagnan. But it’s too late. d’Artagnan is already unlocking the door as fur begins to sprout all over Aramis’ body. He tries to pull the other man out of the way even as a wolf’s growl becomes the loudest noise in the chaotic room. 

Porthos has got one hand on the bars of the cell door and the other on his youngest comrade as the wolf gets to its feet, the shreds of Aramis’ fine clothes sliding off. It’s larger than a natural wolf, with fur the dark color of Aramis’ hair. But it’s eyes are not Aramis’ eyes, instead they are a light yellow in color and are staring menacingly at Porthos. 

Though he is holding the door, Porthos knows that he cannot get out faster than the creature can attack him. His heart is pounding and sweat breaks out on his forehead as he holds the gaze of those inhuman eyes. He’s familiar enough with wild animals to know this is a test of wills, of dominance and strength, and he is determined. 

“What in the hell,” he hears d’Artagnan stutter out. 

In a split second, Porthos pushes the younger man away and then takes an aggressive step forward. Puffing up his chest, he stands tall and growls himself as the werewolf takes a step forward as well but doesn’t attack. Yet. 

“Get out,” Porthos orders the two other men in his most commanding voice. “Close the door and lock it. Then leave.”

But it’s not the two other men that respond to the command in his voice, it’s the werewolf. Porthos had given up hope of surviving this night. And he felt almost lucky at not being around to watch his friend destroyed at having hurt anyone. But instead, he watches the werewolf lie down on the ground, lowering its head. 

“Porthos,” Athos speaks, but he’s interrupted by another growl as the werewolf stands again. 

“Don’t,” Porthos commands and both the man and wolf obey this time. “I don’t have time to explain right now.”

This time, the werewolf extends its neck, sniffing audibly, sniffing...at Porthos. Suddenly, Porthos is reminded of the many times that Aramis has sniffed him recently, buried that pointy nose in his neck. Acting on instinct, Porthos extends a hand which the werewolf delicately smells. Porthos is holding his breath as the wolf’s body language changes, most noticeably as the tail drops from its horizontal position. The wolf’s mouth is open but it’s no longer a snarl, it’s more relaxed. 

Surprised, Porthos takes a breath. Somewhere, deep in there, Aramis recognizes Porthos. Or maybe it was always the werewolf in Aramis that recognized and responded to Porthos’ dominance. Porthos doesn’t know; he’s never heard of a werewolf that recognized people. But he supposes they’re not just friends or lovers or family. They’re Musketeers, they’re a pack. 

Porthos puffs out his chest, trying to appear as large as possible as he takes a single step back. The werewolf stands up, ears becoming alert, but it doesn’t follow him. Taking another step, he quickly steps out of the cell and d’Artagnan closes the door just as quickly, fortunately. 

“It’s Aramis. Aramis is that wolf,” d’Artagnan whispers, even as he’s locking the cell. 

The werewolf growls, jumping at the door and causing the young man to fall back onto the ground. Snout extended through the bars, the wolf growls, lips curling back over sharp canines as it stares at the fallen man with injuman yellow eyes. 

But after a moment, the wolf sniffs the air and then moves on, beginning to explore its cell. Porthos can’t imagine the things that have happened in this cell that the werewolf may be able to smell. 

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asks as he scrambles off the ground. 

“Tell us,” Athos says in his own commanding voice. 

The beast pricks its ears again, like it’s listening, though it’s probably just the tone of their voices. Porthos stares, almost unable to believe that it worked, that they’re all safe, the monster caged. 

“Porthos!” Athos whisper-yells at him. 

“Aramis was bitten by a werewolf,” he says. “Last month, during that animal attack.”

“You knew he was gonna turn into this?” Athos accuses. 

“No,” Porthos says, sharply enough that the werewolf looks back at him. Porthos still isn’t comfortable that something terrible won’t happen if he takes his eyes off the creature. “Yes, I-I figured it out. Aramis burned himself on a silver necklace and then it all made sense, the aggression, hearing things, seeing that sharpshooter, smelling the skull.”

“None of this makes sense,” Athos says darkly. “So you figured it out when?”

“The day that he almost challenged that man,” Porthos confesses. 

“So that’s why,” d’Artagnan muses. “And you said he was smelling things? He has the senses of a wolf all the time now?”

“It seems to build each day until the full moon,” Porthos tries to explain. “He got in more fights, became stronger, but also more distracted, more...animalistic.” 

“And you still kept it secret,” Athos says, stuck on that one point. “While all this was going on.”

“Would you have believed me?” Porthos says exasperated. 

There’s silence except for a giant sniffing dog who has now made it over to the stone wall. Weirdly, the werewolf begins scratching at the stone, more and more frantically until it starts to yip and jump. 

“What is it doing?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“How should I know?” Porthos answers with a question. 

But the werewolf only becomes more agitated, howling now as it moves from the stone wall to the cell wall of bars. It howls again before throwing itself bodily at the bars. To Porthos’ horror, the iron bars actually bend. 

“Stop it!” Athos is yelling now to be heard over the sound of the wolf throwing itself at the bars again. 

“It wants out!” Porthos shouts back, though it should be obvious. They’ve caged a wild animal, more than that, a monster. It’s pissed. 

The werewolf is snarling as it throws itself again. The beast is relentless, but the bars hold, only slightly bent. Porthos’ heart leaps in his chest and he feels frozen, an island being buffeted by waves on all sides, men yelling, a monster growling, and the clang of bars. 

He feels that he can’t breathe again until the werewolf decides to sit and howl, taking a break for a moment. For a while, it alternates between howling and scratching at the stone wall while panting. 

“It wants to be outside,” Athos theorizes. “It just wants to run, get out of the city?”

“The only other werewolf I’ve seen killed everyone in its path,” Porthos explains. “It can’t be allowed out.”

The wolf is snuffling between the bars of its cage now and scratching the floor. “Maybe it smells the evil here. All the criminals locked up inside,” d’Artagnan whispers, echoing Porthos’ earlier thoughts. 

Porthos turns to answer, but then there’s a banging from the other side. 

“What is going on in there?!” a voice yells at them through the door. 

It only makes the werewolf more wound up as it snarls and then throws itself at the bars again. 

“Oh no,” d’Artagnan in concern. “What do we say?”

“I don’t know,” Porthos hisses. Then he yells to the guard on the other side. “Go away! Get away from the door!”

“No!” the answer comes back. “Stop it!” the guard yells as the sound of the bars creaking sounds again. “You open this door right now!”

Porthos looks from d’Artagnan’s wide eyes to Athos’ narrowed ones. All of them are at a loss, until Porthos has an idea. Jolted into action, he practically dives at the discarded bundle of Aramis’ clothes where he left the package retrieved from the guard. Just unwrapping the paper catches the monster’s attention as it turns to look at him with ears pointed up and yellow eyes intense. 

For a moment, Porthos’ hands shake on the packaging, but he knows now that the only way to survive this is to be confident and commanding. Taking a steadying breath, Porthos grabs one of the pieces of meat and throws it into the cell. 

The werewolf is on the meat immediately and scarfing it ravenously. Finished, it raises its head to stare expectantly at them. Porthos raises the next piece, holding the monster’s attention. Again the wolf’s body language changes, the animal becomes more submissive. Its shoulders drop, making the animal appear smaller as it walks closer to the bars. 

When Porthos throws the next piece, the werewolf catches it in its mouth. Porthos can’t resist moving closer himself, feeling like for a moment that they’re actually communing. When he holds up the next piece, the werewolf actually lies down, calm and controlled. He is tempted to try to feed the beast out of his own hand, but his intention is interrupted by Athos’ hand hitting his chest. He tosses the last piece in.

Porthos straightens, worried that the monster will be upset now that there is no food left. But the wolf simply yawns and stands up again. Fortunately, the guard has stopped pounding on the door and antagonizing it. Bored with the humans, the wolf paces the room and howls and scratches. It lies down and jumps in the air and throws itself at the bars again. It’s obviously as bored as the rest of them, but it's relentless in its movement. Whereas the others end up sitting, their backs against the door, just watching the werewolf in front of them. 

“Aramis is a werewolf,” d’Artagnan says like he’s testing out the words. “It can't be real,” the younger man continues. “How does that happen? Hey, does that mean there is another werewolf out there? In Paris? It wasn’t the relic thief, was it?”

“God, I have no idea,” Porthos groans into his hands. That’s a whole other can of worms that he hasn’t even worried over. He’s just glad that no one’s dead yet. 

Suddenly, the werewolf rushes the bars as if it intends to attack them, its lips drawn back in a snarl. Porthos’ thinks that he must have spoken too soon as the air leaves his chest in a rush. But the bars still restrain the beast’s attack and instead, the door of the room shudders against his back. 

“What is that howling in there?!”

The guard is back, asking impossible questions again. 

Snarling himself, Porthos yells back, “I didn’t pay you to ask questions!”

The guard pounds one more time on the door but ceases afterward. Porthos returns his eyes to the werewolf still standing in front of them snarling and tries not to let his nervousness show. But after a moment, the werewolf suddenly sneezes and shakes itself. It returns to the stalking of the room and ignoring them. 

“If this is going to happen every month,” Athos starts, “then we are going to need a better location.”

“Are you sure he can’t just run around the woods? Maybe if he chased some rabbits?” d’Artagnan offers. 

Porthos sighs. “I’m not an expert. But I am afraid what would happen if he came across anyone in the woods.”

“So,” Athos begins and then pauses as if gathering his thoughts. “This is the cause of the drama between the two of you recently then?”

Porthos purses his lips because that’s not exactly the whole truth, but it’s as much as he wants to admit it to. “Yes, I did my best about his new instincts.”

Athos lets out a long breath. “I thought you two were having a lovers’ spat.”

Porthos coughs as he chokes on his own spit. “What? We weren’t together,” he says in a rush, defensive and sounding desperate. 

“What?” Athos says. Porthos looks over to see Athos frowning in confusion which is not a common expression on the man. “I just assumed you were...well, since the minute I met you both. Are you saying…”

Now it’s Porthos who feels confused. “You thought...no, we weren't together, not...not then.” Porthos can't bring himself to confess. 

Athos still looks confused. “If you say so.”

Porthos feels cold and yet sweaty. Is Athos really so cavalier about the idea of a relationship between two men? Did he really think they were together this whole time and yet treated them no differently to other men? It doesn’t make sense in his head and Porthos is too afraid to glance over at their youngest member, too afraid to see the man’s reaction. 

“You know, not all of the side effects are negative,” d’Artagnan continues the conversation, ignoring the elephant in the room. “If he smelled that relic, this could be useful.”

Athos cocks his head. “It can be,” he acknowledges. “If it can be controlled.”

“Perhaps now that Aramis knows what is happening,” d’Artagnan muses. “And we can help.”

They fall silent again, each in his own thoughts. Porthos is tired, his eyes sliding shut only to open at the sound of the irritated wolf barking. It looks like none of them will get any sleep tonight. Porthos doesn’t know how many hours they sit there, only speaking occasionally as a thought enters their mind. 

Until the wolf is suddenly agitated again. It runs around in a tight circle, making instead a higher-pitched yipping sound. Then it seems to stumble and fall to the ground, curling into a ball with a whimper that soon becomes a howl. Porthos stands up, moving slowly to the door of the cell as the other men slowly follow. They all watch from the other side of the bars as the wolf trembles and convulses. 

The sound becomes more human seconds before all of the fur disappears and Aramis is back. Finally, Porthos thinks as he unlocks the door and drops to his knees beside the shuddering naked form. Finally Aramis is back with him. Porthos cradles the still limp and shuddering form in his arms as he sits on the stone floor. Aramis’ long eyelashes flutter like he’s trying to wake up but sleep won’t release him. 

Porthos’ eyes are riveted to that face, tracing every line of it after the long night apart, the furrow of the brow, the sweep of dark eyelashes, the cut of cheekbones, and the lush curve of bottom lip under the moustache. So Porthos sees immediately when Aramis manages to open his eyes. 

“Finally,” Porthos murmurs, rocking the weak form in his arms like an infant. It seems like the change took all of Aramis’ energy along with the wolf. 

Aramis blinks and closes his mouth to swallow, shifting his weight a bit. It seems slow and exhausting. And then, “Porthos.”

Porthos smiles in relief. Just like after the injury that caused this whole mess, his name is the first thing on Aramis’ lips. A canteen hits his arm and he takes it without even looking up to see who gave it to him. He is more focused on gently helping Aramis to drink. 

“The sun must be coming up,” Athos’ voice intrudes. “We need to get out of here.”

Porthos nods, absently. He understands the logic of Athos’ words, but all he can see right now is how Aramis suffers. Gently, he cups Aramis’ cheek with a hand, trying to bring him around more. Aramis closes his eyes like he would go back to sleep, before his body tenses and his eyes fly open again. 

“Porthos,” he says again, his voice slurring slightly but more urgent. A hand reaches out to clench in Porthos’ loose shirt. “Porthos, I think, I think that I became...a wolf. I dreamed of wolves again…”

Porthos sucks in a surprised breath, realizing that he didn’t know what Aramis might remember of last night. But then he’s blowing the air out and whispering to comfort the man on his lap. “Yes,” he murmurs, unable to lie. “Yes, you did. You became a werewolf, but you’re fine. You’re going to be fine and I’m here for you.”

He’s interrupted as Athos hands over the extra clothing that Porthos brought. Aramis’ eyes roll back in his head as Porthos tries to sit him up, but he recovers quickly, blinking rapidly as he tries to lift his head up. Together, they pull the shirt over the weak man’s head and pull the britches up over his feet before pulling the man up to standing. Porthos watches for Aramis to pass out, but he doesn’t. He does start swallowing convulsively, like perhaps his stomach is rebelling. It takes a moment for Porthos to remember that Aramis ate raw meat last night. 

Athos holds the man upright while Porthos gets his shirt tucked in. d’Artagnan stays on the ground trying to shove the boots on. It’s a process. But throughout, Aramis seems to regain his wits and strength. He participates in putting his leather coat back on and manages to shuffle forwards on his own once dressed. But he seems to stumble before exiting the cell, clutching at the bars for a moment and staring wide-eyed.

“Are you alright?” Porthos asks, only then noticing how the bars that the man clutches are bent, evidence of the supernatural strength of the beast living inside his friend. 

“No, I…” Aramis seems confused and swallows hard. “I did this, I...my God, I did this. I...I’m dangerous. I could have...I could have killed you, killed all of you...”

Porthos grabs the man’s face and says fiercely, “No. I wouldn’t let that happen to you. You hear me.” He lets his words sink in for a moment. “You need to rest. Let’s go home.”

Athos opens the door for them and they walk the hall in a line. Of course, the guard is on them as soon as he notices. 

“Hey, you there! You…” the guard sputters at them. 

Athos’ glare stops him from proceeding and then the older Musketeer flips him a coin. They don’t wait for the man’s reaction before continuing on their way. It’s a slow procession, though. The sun is barely up, a misty grey morning that is like a cloak on the city, dampening the usual vibrant sounds. It’s like Porthos could pretend the night was a dream. 

But as Aramis stumbles, it’s clear that it’s not. The streets are empty enough that Porthos wraps an arm around his friend, holding him closer than the average propping up of a drunk friend. Athos notices and drops back, walking beside them as if to stave off any comments. It warms Porthos heart that apparently Athos does accept the idea of them being together. And when he looks to his other side, d’Artagnan is helping Aramis as well. 

But when they reach the stairs to Aramis’ place, the two other Musketeers stay downstairs. “We shall let you two talk it over,” Athos says, “And make your excuses to the Captain.”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis starts but Porthos cuts him off. 

“Thank you,” he says simply, pulling Aramis into his side and pulling the man up the stairs. 

He lets Aramis go to open the door. Aramis stumbles inside and immediately begins stripping. Porthos follows behind, picking up the man’s discarded coat and sword, staying nearby in case of further stumbles. Aramis is nude again, like that’s what is more comfortable at this point. Porthos smiles a little to himself as he moves away just far enough to build up the fire a moment. When he turns back, Aramis is washing up a bit, clearly lost in thought so he gives the man space. Taking off his own coat, Porthos then sits on the foot of the bed to pull off his boots. 

Looking up, he sees Aramis in front of him and immediately widens his legs to allow the other man closer. He’s surprised when Aramis drops gracefully to his knees, though. 

“I’m sorry,” Aramis starts, hands clutching at Porthos’ knees. 

“Don’t,” Porthos cuts him off again. “None of this is your fault.”

Aramis’ face crumples. “But I could have hurt you. I could have killed you, killed you all. I couldn’t…I can’t stop myself.”

Aramis’ voice cracks with emotions. Porthos can’t stand the sight of Aramis hurting so he cups that beloved face in his hands and pulls the man in for a long sweet kiss. He wants to stop the words forever, wants to stop the curse, though, he knows that it’s impossible. 

“I know,” Porthos says when they finally break apart. He leans their foreheads together. “I should have prepared better, safeguarded you. But you, Aramis, you did the impossible. You did stop. You overcame the curse.”

Aramis shakes his head, his breathing still ragged with emotion and Porthos can do nothing to comfort him except pull him into another kiss. This time Aramis clutches at him, deepening the kiss. Porthos has to gentle the desperation in the other man. 

“Shh, I’m here,” Porthos soothes in between kisses, one hand petting the back of the man’s head. “Nothing happened. I’m here and I’ll take care of you.”

Aramis makes a hurt sound into Porthos’ mouth. Porthos bites gently on the full bottom lip and sweeps his hands down the long back to the curve of Aramis’ ass. 

“Please,” Aramis murmurs, his own hands sliding inwards to Porthos’ groin. “I need you…”  
Porthos can tell what Aramis is planning as the hands unlace his britches, but Porthos has other plans. Aramis is his, to comfort, to pleasure, to keep safe. With a firm hand, Porthos instead directs the man to lean over his thigh, Aramis’ upper body face down on the bed. The man shifts and pushes up a bit, but his strength is much depleted and, at this point, Porthos knows that Aramis will acquiesce. 

Porthos simply waits him out, saying, “Steady,” as he strokes the lean muscles of Aramis’ back. With his other hand, he grabs the bottle of oil that has been buried in the sheets ever since their one night. It seems forever ago. He drizzles a little of the oil down the dark crack of Aramis’ ass and follows it with his fingers. Slowly, Porthos slides his middle finger inside that tight passage. 

He’s aiming directly for that spot inside, wanting to see Aramis writhe in pleasure. Immediately, Aramis lifts his head, arching his back at the touch. Again, Porthos is glad that Aramis’ landlady seems able to forgive a multitude of sins as he soaks up the sounds that just his finger elicits. But he wants more and soon he’s pushing Aramis on the bed and standing up. Aramis moves slowly, almost lazily as he crawls forward, his chest on the bed with his ass up. Porthos marvels at the seemingly instinctive submissiveness despite Aramis’ ferocity. 

Porthos sinks two fingers inside again, just to hear Aramis moan and watch that now rosy hole stretch around his fingers. “Does that feel good?” he can’t help asking. 

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes,” Aramis moans. “More.”

Porthos is happy to oblige and lines his cock up with that winking hole. His first thrusts inside are short and sharp and so are Aramis’ sounds. 

“Relax,” he soothes, running a hand down the man’s flank. HIs next thrust is deeper, his hips hitting the meat of Aramis’s ass. 

HIs hand slides over that lean back, up to a shoulder that he grips for leverage. Aramis moans at the new angle and gets up on his hands, arching his neck back as Porthos thrusts. Portho can’t resist wrapping a large hand around that elegant throat. Gently, he pulls Aramis into a further arch, relishing the choked off sounds of pleasure at the angle. Eventually, Aramis relaxes further, letting Porthos pull him up to kneeling, chest to back. He wraps his other arm around Aramis’ chest. 

Porthos’ thrusts slow at this new position and he circles his hips. His hand slides up to wrap around the lower part of Aramis’ jaw, pulling until their lips can meet again. It’s less than kissing, more like Aramis simply moaning into his mouth. Porthos slides his arm down the lean chest until he can grasp Aramis’ hard cock. Aramis gasps and straightens, fidgeting in pleasure. 

Porthos slides his fist along the entire length a few times, before his grip becomes teasing, concentrating on the head. When he stops stroking, Aramis whines in frustration but Porthos shushes him, kissing the side of his neck. Gently, Porthos pushes Aramis back down, pressing him down into the mattress with his own weight. They fit together perfectly, Aramis’ slightly smaller body nestled into Porthos’ own, practically hidden beneath him. 

Porthos grinds his dick into that tight channel, his breath hot on Aramis’ throat. One hand cups the other man’s sweaty forehead where Aramis’ face is turned to the side on the pillow. Aramis arches readily to Porthos’ gentle pressure. Faced with the blatant invitation, Porthos kisses and then sucks at the long neck as Aramis’ moans become cries, his hips jerking into Porthos’ thrusts. So Porthos’ kisses become sucking, become biting. Porthos grips a tendon with his teeth as Aramis suddenly comes, his body jerking like a fish on the line in Porthos’ grip. 

Satisfied with the other man’s pleasure, Porthos releases his teeth and presses his forehead into the Aramis’ temple. He lifts his hips up so that he can thrust harder, their skin slapping together as he drives himself faster and deeper. He’s not in control of his mouth as he races towards his own orgasm. 

“Mine,” he growls. “Mine to give pleasure, to take care of, to keep safe, mine!” He finishes with a last groan, shuddering in pleasure. Even as his hips are still jerking with the last throes, his hands are petting through Aramis’ crazy hair, wanting to check on his partner. 

It’s why he so quickly notices that Aramis has gone still and quiet beneath him, not the luxuriating post-coital bliss that he witnessed before. 

“I’m not your responsibility,” Aramis says quietly. “Don’t do that to yourself. This isn’t your problem…”

Porthos bites down on Aramis’ neck again which succeeds in cutting off the flow of words. But he’s surprised when Aramis shudders and gasps as if coming again, even squeezing Porthos’ cock in that tight channel. Slowly, Porthos releases his teeth and then licks over the now slightly blood bite mark. 

“Mine,” he growls. 

Aramis seems to sink into the mattress now, eyelashes fluttering in exhausted bliss. This is what Porthos was aiming for. So he finally pulls out and shifts his weight over onto the bed, pulling his partner with him. Lying on his back, he pulls at the limp man until he’s comfortable. Aramis’ long nose quickly finds his throat again, eyes still closed while rooting around like a blind newborn kitten. 

Aramis is too exhausted by the change, too enveloped in Porthos’ scent to notice a familiar smell. There’s a man outside, shrouded and hooded but visibly smelling the air outside Aramis’ window. 

**Author's Note:**

> Out on a mission Aramis is bitten by this big dog that comes out of nowhere and disappears just as fast. He gets it treated and they don’t think much more on it. But then he gradually starts to act a off, becoming snappish over little things and more moody than normal. Maybe more horny (even for Aramis). Extremely restless (again, even for Aramis). Etc.  
> Porthos, coming from the Court of Miracles is aware of the supernatural world and so figures out what must have happened. He keeps trying to warn the others, but they don’t believe him and think he’s being overly superstitious.  
> Aramis gets more and more out of control leading up to the full moon, where, despite the other’s not believing him, Porthos just manages to trap Aramis in a room as he’s changing. Which was tricky as Aramis was in a lot of pain and the others didn’t want to leave him, trying to figure out why he is in such agony. Then it’s a struggle to keep the wolf contained until the moon sets.  
> Let’s have a werewolf that doesn’t have any control over its actions, does not remember anything afterwards and is extremely dangerous. They need to discuss what they should do – kill Aramis (noooo! rather you didn't, but if that's the way it takes you) or somehow work out how to contain him every month?  
> Aramis will probably need care and comfort after the full moon and having to come to terms with the change. Also the struggle dealing with his new instincts: he really doesn’t like to be given orders, which is a big problem for a solider. The others could registers to him as his pack (or mates) while in human form. Maybe that pack includes Treville (as his alpha? which could help with orders coming from Treville at least).


End file.
